Chapter 6

Chapter Six

I know I should head inside and get ready for Christmas dinner, but the serenity of my wood shop is making it difficult to face my future. The wood doesn’t judge me.

Tracing my finger over the design I carved, I feel a proud smile on my face. This coffee table is shaping up nicely. I can’t fit many large items in my craft stall at a time, but each one I put up for sale there has sold, so I’m trying to be better prepared for next year by having replacements ready to go. With a last wistful look at my tools, I turn my radio off and breathe in the calming scent of lumber, hoping it will get me through the next few hours.

I lock up and trek back to the house. Pulling out my phone, I bring up the Holidate app and let out a soft laugh. To think I was glued to this thing a few weeks ago. Now, I’m only checking it as an afterthought to see if my new date canceled. I haven’t looked at it since I noticed a notification two days ago that I had a request. I’d meant to deactivate my profile, or at the very least, change my status to ‘ Unavailable ’ after Henry ditched me.

I can’t say I feel as dire a need to impress my cousin with a fake boyfriend as I did when I first downloaded the app—cabin epiphanies will do that to a man, I guess—but when I saw the notice that ‘Vincent’ was available to accommodate my request at the last minute, I found no reason to decline. What can it hurt?

With a renewed sense of confidence, I step into my bathroom. Look at me, taking someone to my relatives’ house without having a pre-date first. Ronny would be speechless.

My hand stills on the shower faucet handle. Why does that man keep popping into my head? He’s been my constant companion since our night at the cabin. When I got in my car yesterday to go to the store, I thought about the way his smile looked after the plow driver dropped me off. When I picked up my saw off my wood bench, I thought about the crease he gets in his brow when he’s concentrating at work. I couldn’t watch TV without wondering what he watches. And I don’t even want to admit what I’ve thought about him while lying in bed at night. Lumberjack is missing, and his stand-in really needs to move on.

I’ve gone from fantasizing to daydreaming. This can’t be healthy.

So, he’s attractive and… wasn’t awful for a few hours. I’m sure it’ll pass. I have all winter for it to pass. People don’t daydream about their annoying co-workers. And with any luck, Vincent will be more attractive than Ronny.

Stepping under the hot water, I ignore the voice in my head. The one that whispers, ‘ Doubtful. Highly doubtful .’

An hour later, I’m clean-shaven and as prepared as I can be for the Green family Christmas. I straightened my cowlick to the best of my ability. My navy plaid button-up is a defiant attempt at not appearing too festive. You don’t want to outshine anyone who shows up in matching monogrammed sweaters, after all.

I have approximately fifteen minutes before Vincent arrives. Pausing, I stare at myself in the hallway mirror. I know this is just a helpful arrangement between two strangers, but a flicker of spontaneity has me turning back for my breath mints. What if we hit it off? Stranger things have happened.

A knock at the door has me nearly jumping out of my skin. He’s early.

Promptness. I like him already.

Opening the door, I prepare a welcoming smile. It shatters like an icicle crashing to the pavement at the sight on my doorstep.

“ You ,” I blurt, not caring that it sounds like an accusation.

It is. Why is the lumberjack killer on my porch? And, my God, he cleans up well in that snug green sweater.

Ronny’s cheerful smile falters on a gust of breathless laughter. The sleeves of his thick black puffer coat make a swishing sound as he stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Um, hello to you, too.”

Is he lost? Crap. How will this look when Vincent shows up?

“No, I mean, you can’t be here. I have a date coming.”

My face burns against the cool air flooding in. I’ve just confessed about yet another holidate to this man. “Wait. How do you know where I live, anyway?”

Flashing me a quizzical look, he steps inside. “You told me.”

“I did?” I gape the surreal sight of the star of my bizarre sleeping bag fantasies standing in my entryway.

“Yeah. Are you ready?” he asks, giving me a once-over.

“Uh… ready for my date ? Yeah. That’s what I just said. He should be here any minute. We have to be at my aunt and uncle’s in half an hour, so I’m sorry, but we need to make this quick. Did you need something?”

Please tell me he didn’t come here to discuss my cabin behavior.

“Wait. I thought you were just messing with me. You really don’t know?”

Could he be more infuriatingly vague? I can’t believe I actually jerked off to the memory of our near-dicking.

“Know you’re being more obtuse than usual? Uh, yeah. That’s pretty clear,” I heave, throwing my hands out to the sides.

“Oh, wow.” He chuckles, scrubbing his palm over his stupid smile. Squaring his shoulders, he extends his hand like he wants me to shake it. “ Vincent Ronald Carmichael, at your service. Here for all your fake holidate needs.”

Did he just say…Vincent? I never told him my date’s name. I know I didn’t. I only told him about the app when we were…

Oh, fuck.

No.

“What? You’re kidding me. You’re Vincent?”

He retracts his hand and lets out an amused puff of breath. This is not amusing. I am not amused. Of all the dirty tricks!

“This isn’t funny. First, you ruined my pre-date, and now you infiltrated the Holidate app just to mess with me?”

“Whoa. Whoa. Hold up with the overactive imagination, will you? I’m not as devious as you seem to think I am. I knew you needed a date, and I was free, so…here I am.”

Ew. It was better when I thought this was a trick. Hearing that he volunteered out of sympathy just evaporated any confidence I had mustered for the evening.

Folding my arms across my chest, I hold my head high. “I don’t need your pity.”

He lets out a heavy sigh. I hate how he always makes me feel like I’m dramatic. I’m not. I’m…flustered.

“Will there be food at this fuck-you-Trent gathering?”

“Yes, although I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

Stepping forward, he reaches past me, clearly ignorant of the fact that his body traumatized mine. “Good. I’m starving. Let’s hit it,” he says, snatching my navy peacoat off the hook and holding it open by the lapels.

The sight of him being courteous wars with my hackles over his pushiness. I don’t care that he looks like some kind of gentleman holding my coat out. He’s still being bossy.

“Hey, you can’t just barge in here and assume I was dateless or that I’d want you to go with me.”

“Look. You said we need to be there in half an hour. We don’t have time for a pre-date,” he rationalizes, raising my coat up higher. “Just put the coat on.”

“What makes you assume that’s the coat I want to wear?”

It is. It’s my nicest coat. All the others are work jackets, threadbare or stained, but it’s the principle of the thing.

“Um, because it’s uptight and unsuitable for cold weather?”

I hate him.

Truly, I do. Good looks and rare moments of kindness aside, I know for certain that comment just eradicated my late-night fantasy problem.

“Fine.” He sighs in defeat. “Which one were you going to wear?”

I am not showing up in one of my brown work coats. Fucking Trent and my wounded pride.

“This one,” I mutter, snatching my peacoat from his hands.

I take a step back to bar any opportunity for him to assist. Once I have my arms stuffed into my sleeves, I find him looking far too smug.

“Knock it off,” I warn, rolling my eyes and reaching for the door. “This won’t work if we bicker the entire time.”

“Sure it will. They’ll think we’ve been together forever.”

Ten minutes later, I’m still trying not to pout over our argument about how he thinks his four-wheel-drive truck was the better option to drive in a Minnesota winter. I can’t believe I’m headed to my family’s Christmas with him .

I don’t get him. I thought we had a mutual dislike, but he keeps… doing things that seem contrary. Now that I’ve had time to cool down from his surprise arrival, logic tells me this must be his ass-backward way of apologizing for getting us stuck in that cabin. Sighing, I lean my head back against the seat and decide to throw out the white flag.

“So, why Ronny ?”

“ Why Ronny what ? ”

Ugh. I have to spell everything out.

“I don’t know. You tell me, Vincent .”

Scoffing, he shakes his head. “Excuse me if I didn’t want to be the seventh Vinny Carmichael in my family. ”

Geez. That sounds like an episode of The Sopranos .

“Fair enough.”

The following silence feels akin to sitting in a dirty puddle. This is such a bad idea.

“Is there anything you need me to know before we get there? Any dos or don’ts?”

I want to tell him that sounds like pre-date conversation but bite my tongue. Shaking my head in defeat, I stare out my window at the familiar scenery of Aunt Joyce and Uncle Bill’s neighborhood.

“Unless you can pull off the impossible and act like you worship the ground I walk on, no. I just want to get this over with.”