Faking it for Christmas

Chapter 5

Grace

We are so not prepared for this.

And by “we,” I mean me. I am absolutely not prepared for this.

It is the first coherent thought that springs forth when my alarm drags me out of sleep at five in the morning. The second is that I just might murder Dawson Reese for even getting me in this situation.

Not literally, of course—he kind of saved me last night by stepping in when he didn't have to. But now that I am somewhat clear-headed and thinking rationally, I don't know if we should go through with this. It's one thing to say you’re someone's boyfriend for a day, maybe two. But two weeks? That is crazy, right?

This is being trapped in a car for hours with a guy that I know nothing about.

This is meeting my parents and acting as if we are together.

Can we really play the happy couple for that long? Can I?

I shove the blankets off my legs and swing my feet to the floor. My apartment is cold, the kind of cold that makes you question every life choice that led me to this moment. I pull on a pair of fuzzy socks and immediately trip over my overnight bag that is lying haphazardly a few feet away. I packed it at one in the morning after pacing in my bedroom for a solid hour and debating on whether I should fake a mild illness to get out of going.

It’s far too late for that now.

Mom knows I'm coming, and she knows I am bringing someone who isn't Parker. She was as surprised as I was, to be honest, but after some careful explanation that this was supposed to be a surprise, she bought it. She was disappointed that I hadn't told her beforehand, but I used the same excuse that Dawson had last night.

I begrudgingly make my way into the bathroom to start getting ready for today. I turn on the faucet, then cup my hands underneath the running water to splash on my face. I stare at my reflection as water droplets run down my face.

“I can do this. I can do this,” I repeat the statement like it is my new mantra. My reflection looks as unconvinced as I feel on the inside.

I finish up and make my way back to my bedroom. I yank open the closet doors and immediately regret every fashion choice I’ve ever made. Jeans? Too casual. Sweater dress? It is too obvious that I am trying too hard. Leggings and a hoodie? More like I’ve given up on life altogether.

I pull out one clothing option after another before tossing them onto the bed until it looks like what was left of my wardrobe exploded all over the room.

It’s just a trip home. Just my parents. Just two weeks of pretending. So why does it suddenly feel like I need to look… cute?

My hands still on a soft cream sweater that my mom bought me last year, and for a second, my thoughts drift—uninvited—to Dawson. My thoughts linger around the way he had stood beside me last night, steady and solid, almost as if he belonged there. Then, to the way, his voice had dropped lower when he told Parker we had plans.

I shake my head, trying to clear my mind while muttering under my breath, “Nope. Not going there.”

But the thought lingers regardless.

I want to look nice. Not for Parker. Not for my parents. For him.

And that realization makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with nerves about pretending to be a couple. I pull the oversized knit sweater over my head and smooth it out over my chest, then I grab my favorite pair of jeans, the ones that make my legs look longer, and I tell myself it’s purely strategic. If we’re going to sell this whole fake-dating thing, I need to at least look the part. That’s all.

This is totally logical.

It has nothing to do with the totally thought-consuming Marine.

I head back into the bathroom once I am dressed and curl my hair, and do my makeup in record time. I zip my suitcase shut after I have thrown the last of my things inside it and drag it to the front door, then start hunting for my boots.

"Where did I put them last?" I ask myself as I search the perimeter of my room. "Ah," I answer the empty room as I drop to my knees next to my bed, the floorboards creaking under me as I begin to rifle underneath it until I find them. Just as I am pulling the second boot out from under the bed, there are three firm taps on my front door.

My heart jumps as panic courses through my veins.

He's early.

Of course, he is—the universe can’t resist kicking me while I’m down.

I smooth a hand through my hair and then down my sides, trying to straighten my sweater, before I immediately ruin it by tugging nervously at the hem. I am practically frozen, staring at the door to my bedroom that leads into the rest of my apartment. There is another knock, this one far slower than the last set.

“Grace?” Dawson’s voice calls low and steady through the door.

Oh God.

This is really happening.

I am out of my room, my heart pounding against my ribs as I open the front door. Dawson is standing there like he has any right to look this calm so early in the morning. His dark jacket that he had been wearing last night, is zipped all the way to his throat, probably to block the cold. His cap is pulled low just like the night before, casting his eyes in a shadow.

Dawson clears his throat, and I blush because I know that I have been caught staring at his face. I force my eyes to avert, and that is when I see them.

A cup of coffee in each hand.

“Morning,” he says, offering one to me.

I blink up at him in surprise. “You brought me coffee?” I say as I take the cup from his hand. My fingers slightly brushing against his as they do, I swear there is a bolt of electricity that shoots through my hand. Dawson remains to look unfazed, and I briefly wonder if I just imagined all of that or not.

I do my best to pretend that the accidental touch does nothing to me. “That’s… shockingly thoughtful, thank you.”

The cup is warm against my palm, with steam curling up through the small hole in the lid. The scent of caramel and espresso fills my senses. I take a sip and freeze as my eyes go wide.

It’s my favorite. Like my exact order.

My eyes snap up to his. “Wait. How did you know?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and I start to wonder if he even will when he tips his chin toward the kitchen bar. I follow his gaze. Sitting there, half-hidden behind my overnight bag, is an older cup that I forgot to throw out. My name was scrawled across the side in a bright red marker.

Heat rushes to my cheeks in embarrassment.

“You noticed that?” I ask, as I turn and rush to grab the older cup and throw it into the trash can.

When I turn back around, I lock eyes with Dawson. His mouth curves, just barely at the edges, like he is fighting to keep from smiling. “I notice things. It kind of was my job.”

Oh, that's great.

That thought barely registered when he closed the door to my apartment and stepped inside.

I know he is noticing everything that I would probably rather he didn't right now. From the layer of dust that is covering the shelves of my bookshelf in the far corner, which I keep telling myself to clean but never actually do.

Or maybe the half-dead plant near the window that I thought was going to be easy. But as it turns out, plants and I don't get along.

“Did you sleep?” he asks as he props on the edge of the kitchen counter in front of me.

“If by sleep you mean stare at the ceiling for hours, then yeah, I slept,” I say dryly.

He hums, like he expected that. Or like he barely slept either.

His gaze lands on my suitcase and then on me. His gaze travels from the tips of my socked feet all the way back to my face. It didn't seem as if he lingered longer than he should have in a single place, but the way my body heats up in relation tells me that my body felt his gaze in a far different aspect than my mind did.

“You ready?”

“No,” I answer immediately, and it comes out a bit shakier than I would have liked. “Not even remotely. We don’t have a backstory. I don’t know what we’re telling them. My mother is going to ask how we met, and the only thing I can think of is ‘he pretended to be my boyfriend,’ and I don’t think that really screams holiday magic. Let alone love.”

He takes a slow sip of his coffee as he watches me. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, so calm that it’s annoying.

“How?” I demand, gesturing wildly with my free hand. “We’ve known each other for what?… Twelve hours. And half of that you didn’t even talk to me. How are we supposed to make this look real?”

I recognize my mistake the second the words are out of my mouth. Dawson turns to face me fully as he sets his coffee down in front of him before he pushes over the top of the counter to where he is directly in front of me. Even with him leaning over a countertop, I still feel small compared to him.

My breath catches as the air shifts around us, carrying with it the faint scent of coffee and clean soap. His hand lifts, and I stop breathing altogether when his rough fingers brush under my chin, tilting it up until my gaze collides with his.

The steady thrum of his pulse where his hand brushes my chin has my pulse stuttering. And my knees threaten mutiny against me at any second. His lips are so close to mine. They hover only a breath away, and the world seems to narrow to the space between us, the heat of his body, and the weight of his gaze on me.

I can’t move. And yet I don’t want to.

My thoughts begin to spiral—this is insane, this is reckless, this is definitely not part of the plan—and yet my body betrays me, leaning across the countertop, waiting, wanting.

Then that familiar tilt to his lips returns, just barely, and I am smacked out of my daze when his voice drops low.

“See?” he murmurs. "I think we’re more than capable of making this look real between us."

My brain short-circuits, and I can't seem to make my mouth work. Nothing but a strangled sound—half laugh, half protest— seems to find its way out and immediately step back, my hands tugging at my sweater hem like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world to me.

“Relax, Grace. I can fake a relationship without kissing you.”

I look up, and he smirks slightly, but his statement does little to ease the rapid pace of my heart right now. Because I'm not sure if it will be as easy for me, and we haven't even made it to Willow Creek yet.

I am doomed.