Boyfriend for the Holidays

Chapter 4. Heat

After the confrontation with Adam settles, dinner continues at a more relaxed pace. The tension gradually dissolves as Mom brings out her traditional Christmas sides—the honey-glazed carrots, her special cranberry sauce, and the green bean casserole that’s been part of our family dinners since before I can remember. Garred tries everything, making appreciative noises that have Mom practically glowing with pride. He then actually asks her for that potato recipe and even writes it down in his phone. I’m not sure if Garred is truly a food enthusiast, but he seems genuinely excited to have this recipe, especially since, as he put it himself, he “had at least three servings” of the said potatoes and didn’t go for a fourth one just out of manners.

While they chat, I’m picking at my carrots, still a bit unsettled by Adam’s comments, when I feel Garred’s leg press against mine under the table. It’s subtle, probably meant to be reassuring, but it sends a wave of warmth through me that has nothing to do with the mulled wine Mom’s been refilling in everyone’s glasses.

“So,” Grandma says, dabbing her mouth with her napkin, “you two are staying until Monday morning, right?”

I nod, and Mom beams at that, even though I already told her beforehand. But now that she knows Garred and I are “dating,” she’s practically buzzing as she says, “It’s great we won’t have to bring the spare mattress from the garage. There’s a queen-sized bed in Mitch’s old room, so you’ll be comfortable there.”

It dawns on me what this means—Garred and I will be sleeping in one bed. I feel the blood rush from my face as I steal a quick glance at Garred, who’s draped his hand over my chair and is nodding nonchalantly at my mom, like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

This is the only thought buzzing in my head for the rest of dinner. After dessert, we exchange gifts, and after some more mulled wine, we start preparing for bed.

Once we’re upstairs, my old room feels smaller than ever, probably because Garred takes up so much space in it. He’s examining my old posters—Marvel movies, some indie bands, and, yes, the infamous Twilight poster that Mom never let me take down—while I’m frozen by the door, staring at the bed like it might bite.

“I can take the floor,” Garred says suddenly, breaking the silence.

“What? No,” I protest automatically, though my heart’s racing. “You’re too…tall for that.” I almost say big but catch myself. “Your back would be killing you tomorrow.”

He turns to face me, and in the soft glow of my bedside lamp, his expression is gentle. “Mitch, it’s fine. I’ve slept in worse places during my shifts.”

“No, really,” I insist, trying to sound casual. “The bed’s big enough. We’re adults; we can handle sharing.”

Garred raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement on his lips. “Can we?”

I toss my toiletry bag at him, which he catches easily. “Shut up. Go brush your teeth.”

While he’s in the bathroom, I change into my pajamas at record speed—flannel pants and an old college T-shirt. I’m just finishing up when he comes back, fresh from his shower, still wearing my too-tight high school shirt. And briefs.

“Don’t you want something more comfortable to sleep in?” I ask, trying not to stare at how the fabric clings to his chest.

“This is fine,” he says, then grins. “Unless you’re worried you won’t be able to keep your hands to yourself?”

“You wish,” I scoff, heading to the bathroom before he can see me blush, but I pause at the doorway. “And maybe ease up on the jokes, Garred. A more sensitive guy might’ve taken that last one as homophobic.” I’m not actually offended—the smirk in my voice makes that clear—but I can’t resist poking him for thinking he’s so irresistible.

Garred looks genuinely puzzled. “How’s that homophobic?” He lifts an eyebrow. “I’m literally flirting with you.”

I freeze. Wait, what? My brain stalls, trying to process. Is this a joke? Because I’m too tired and tipsy to tell. Then again, maybe he’s a bit tipsy too—his flushed cheeks seem to suggest it.

Garred gives me a sheepish smile. I blink, speechless, and quickly escape to the bathroom.

When I return, he’s already in bed, lying on his back with one arm behind his head. He’s taken off the shirt, and I nearly trip over my own feet. The moonlight streaming through the window highlights the lines of his chest, and I have to remind myself this is all pretend—that he’s just playing a role and that I’m paying him for it. Well, sort of. With food.

“Your family’s nice,” he says as I awkwardly hover by the bed. “Even Adam, in his own way.”

I snort and finally slide under the covers on my side. “Yeah, he’s a real charmer.”

“He cares about you,” Garred says softly. “They all do. You can tell.”

Something in his voice makes me turn my head. He’s staring at the ceiling, his profile sharp in the moonlight.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I know.”

“The way you described it, I pictured your family as really controlling, but they just seem a bit overprotective.”

“They’re on their best behavior because you’re here,” I scoff.

“Hm,” he murmurs, but doesn’t say anything more.

We lie there in silence for a minute, and I’m hyperaware of every inch of space between us. The bed suddenly feels both too big and too small at the same time.

“Thank you,” I say finally. “For defending me at dinner. You didn’t have to do that.”

He turns his head to look at me, and our faces are closer than I expected. “Yes, I did.”

My breath catches. “It’s not…it’s not part of what we agreed to.”

“Maybe I just wanted to.”

The air feels thick with possibility, and I have to look away. “Right. You’re such a good actor, by the way.”

Garred shifts beside me, and I feel his hand brush against mine under the covers. “Mitch…”

A knock at the door makes us both jump.

“Mitchell?” It’s Mom. “I brought you boys some extra blankets. It gets cold up here at night.”

I scramble out of bed and open the door, taking the blankets from her. She peers past me into the room, her eyes widening a bit at the sight of Garred’s bare chest. I quickly say goodnight before she can start gushing again.

When I turn back around, Garred’s watching me with an unreadable expression.

“What?” I ask, dropping the blankets at the foot of the bed.

“Nothing,” he says, but he’s smiling. “Just thinking about what a terrible liar you are.”

“I am not!”

“You literally tripped over your words introducing me to your mom.”

“Well, excuse me for not being a professional fake boyfriend like you,” I grumble, sliding back into bed.

He laughs, the sound low and warm in the quiet room. “Trust me, I’m not as professional as you think.”

I turn to face him, propping myself up on one elbow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

But Garred just smiles and closes his eyes. “Goodnight, Mitch.”

I watch him for a moment longer, noticing the steady rise and fall of his chest, before lying back down. “Goodnight, Garred.”

As I drift off to sleep, I swear I feel his fingers brush against mine under the covers. But maybe that’s just my imagination—or the wine. Or maybe it’s wishful thinking. Because this is all pretend, right?

…Right?

***

I wake to warmth.

Not just the usual bundled-under-blankets warmth, but a heat that seems to wrap around me completely. As I slowly come to my senses, I realize why: during the night, I somehow ended up pressed against Garred’s chest, his arm draped heavily over my waist, our legs tangled beneath the sheets.

My first instinct is to pull away, but my body betrays me, wanting to sink deeper into his embrace. His chest rises and falls steadily against my back, his breath warm on my neck, and I’m struck by how natural this feels. Like we’ve done this a hundred times before.

I should move. I really should.

But then Garred shifts in his sleep, pulling me closer, his hand spreading across my stomach. My brain short-circuits as his fingers flex unconsciously, tracing gentle circles through the thin fabric of my T-shirt. I have to bite back a small gasp.

“Garred,” I whisper, barely breathing.

“Mmhmm.” His nose brushes the nape of my neck, his voice rough with sleep as he stirs but somehow pulls me even closer, sending a shiver down my spine.

“It’s morning,” I say, imagining the embarrassment he’ll feel when he realizes it’s me he’s holding, not one of his firefighter groupies or something.

There’s a pause, and I feel Garred tense slightly as he realizes our position. But he doesn’t immediately pull away.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asks, his voice still low and gravelly. After a beat, he releases me, and I gain a little space between us, swallowing hard as I avoid his gaze.

“Yeah. You?”

“Like a baby,” he says, and I can feel his smile. “Though someone’s a bit of a blanket thief.”

“I am not,” I protest weakly, trying to ignore the lingering warmth of his touch on my skin.

“You absolutely are. At one point, I was freezing.”

My heart stutters at his words. Is that what it was? Just sharing body heat?

The morning sun streams through my old curtains, painting stripes of gold across the bed, and somewhere outside, a bird starts singing.

Garred turns onto his side, watching me closely, noticing, maybe, how my thoughts are all over the place. I can’t avoid looking at him any longer, and when I do, my breath catches.

His eyes are incredibly dark even in the morning light, flecked with gold, and they’re fixed on mine with an intensity that makes my heart skip. His hair is tousled from sleep, curling slightly at the temples, and there’s a hint of stubble along his jaw that definitely wasn’t there yesterday. He looks… real. Human. Not the perfect fake boyfriend from last night, but someone tangible and flawed and beautiful.

“Mitch,” Garred says softly, his voice serious now. “I should probably tell you something—”

But before he can continue, there’s a knock at the door.

I can’t believe my family’s sense of comedic timing—just when Garred and I start to actually connect.

“Boys?” Mom calls out. “Breakfast in ten minutes! I’m making my special Christmas morning waffles!”

We almost spring apart like we’ve been shocked, and I nearly fall out of bed in my rush to put some distance between us. Garred catches my arm, steadying me, and the touch sends sparks up my skin.

“We’ll be right down, Mrs. Collins!” Garred calls back, his voice remarkably steady despite the intensity in his eyes as he looks at me.

“Linda, dear! Remember?”

“Sorry—Linda!” he corrects, and we hear her happy footsteps heading back downstairs.

I look at Garred for a moment, noticing a slight flush on his cheeks that makes him look younger, somehow more vulnerable. The sheet has slipped to his waist, and I have to force myself to look away from the defined lines of his chest.

“What did you want to tell me?” I ask, biting my lip. I can feel that the moment has passed, but I still want to know.

Garred shakes his head. “Later, maybe.”

“Yeah,” I agree, gesturing vaguely toward the bathroom. “I’ll take a quick shower.”

“Yeah,” he replies, running a hand through his hair.

I scoop up my clothes and practically flee to the bathroom, closing the door and leaning against it, heart pounding. What was all that? This whole morning? The memory of his touch lingers on my skin, and I end up splashing cold water on my face a few times before I can even think straight.

By the time I emerge, Garred’s pulled on a fresh shirt—one of his own this time, thank god—and is making the bed with military precision. He looks up when I walk in, and something flickers in his eyes before he masks it with a casual smile.

“Bathroom’s free,” I say, fidgeting with the hem of my sweater.

He nods, grabbing his toiletry bag, but pauses as he passes me. For a moment, I think he’s going to say whatever it was he wanted to say earlier—but instead, he reaches out and gently tucks a strand of my still-damp hair behind my ear.

“You look good in the morning,” he says softly, then slips into the bathroom before I can respond.

I stand there, frozen, my ear tingling where his fingers brushed it, and wonder how I’m supposed to survive the entire day (and one more night) when I can barely handle breakfast.

Speaking of breakfast… I glance at the clock and realize we’re already running late. Mom’s Christmas morning waffles wait for no one—not even her son and his fake boyfriend.

***

The morning-after-Christmas waffles are a tradition as old as time itself, but today, I can barely taste them. Not with Garred’s thigh pressed against mine under the table, not with him “accidentally” brushing his hand against mine as he reaches for the syrup, and definitely not when he lets out a low, appreciative moan after his first bite that nearly makes me choke on my coffee.

“These are incredible, Linda,” he says, and Mom practically glows. “The hint of cinnamon is perfect.”

“Finally, someone who appreciates my secret ingredient!” she beams, shooting me a look that clearly says, keeper.

I’m about to roll my eyes at her when Garred’s fork appears in front of me, loaded with a piece of waffle dripping in maple syrup. “Try it with the strawberries,” he says softly, holding a fresh berry in his other hand. “It’s amazing.”

Before I can think better of it, I lean forward and take the bite of strawberry, then the waffle from his fork. The mix of sweet and the slight sourness of the strawberry is delicious, but all I can focus on is the way Garred’s eyes darken as he watches me. Or am I imagining things? I had so much mulled wine last night that I can’t tell if I’m hallucinating.

A drop of syrup escapes the corner of my mouth, and Garred’s thumb is there instantly, brushing it away and lingering on my bottom lip just a moment longer than necessary before he lifts it to his own mouth, licking it off his finger.

Someone clears their throat loudly, and we both jump. It’s Adam, looking somewhere between amused and uncomfortable.

“Could you two maybe save it for after breakfast?” he asks dryly.

My face heats up, but Garred just grins, completely unapologetic. “Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all.

Claire giggles, elbowing Adam. “Oh, leave them alone. They’re sweet.”

“Too sweet,” Adam mutters, though there’s less bite in his tone than yesterday.

The morning sun streams through the kitchen windows, glinting off the remnants of syrup and melted butter on our plates. Steam rises from fresh cups of coffee as everyone settles into planning the day. There’s something comforting about this moment—the way my family naturally falls into their rhythms, casually including Garred in their plans as if he’s always been here.

“I’m taking these sugar monsters to see the holiday play at the community center,” Rick says, trying to wrangle his youngest into a chair while she bounces in her Christmas pajamas. “‘The Nutcracker’ this year. Maybe it’ll help burn off some of that candy cane energy.”

Jemma dabs at a sticky spot on their daughter’s chin, sharing a knowing look with her husband.

Mom adjusts her reading glasses, already making lists despite yesterday’s feast. “Jemma and I need to get started on dinner soon. We’ve got all those lovely leftover sides, but I’m thinking of doing a honey-glazed ham tonight.” She’s in her element, her enthusiasm for feeding the family only heightened by yesterday’s success.

“And I’ve got to take Claire to her check-up,” Adam says over his second cup of coffee, his hand finding his wife’s on the table. The gesture reminds me of how Garred held my hand earlier, and I have to look away.

Dad sips from the novelty mug I got him yesterday, the one covered in terrible dad jokes. “I’ll be dropping your grandmother at her bridge club,” he says, glancing up from his crossword. “Can’t miss the post-Christmas tournament, can we, Mom?”

Grandma smirks, “Certainly not. The whole club’s falling apart without proper leadership.” She pats her cardigan pocket where her lucky cards are safely tucked. “Someone needs to restore order, and it might as well be me.”

Through the comfortable chaos of clattering plates and overlapping conversations, Mom’s voice cuts in with unusual enthusiasm. “What about you two?” She’s looking at Garred and me with an expression I’ve never seen before—hopeful, almost glowing. “You should go explore the town! Everything’s still decorated, and you could show Garred that little coffee shop you love. The one with the gingerbread lattes you used to go crazy for in high school.”

I stare at her in disbelief. This is the same woman who had me peeling potatoes for three hours the day after Christmas last year, insisting she needed help with her famous post-Christmas dinner. But here she is, practically shooing us away from the house, beaming as she watches Garred snag another piece of bacon from my plate. He’s been doing that since yesterday, treating my food like an extension of his own, and somehow I can’t even pretend to be annoyed about it.

As the kitchen slowly empties, with everyone heading off to their errands and activities, I find myself alone with Mom, absently wiping down the already-clean counter. Garred’s gone upstairs to change and take a shower, and I can hear the water running through the old pipes.

“You know,” Mom says, carefully arranging the leftover waffles in a container, “I haven’t seen you this happy in a long time.”

I freeze mid-wipe. There’s something in her voice, a softness that makes my chest ache. When I look up, her eyes are suspiciously bright.

“You’re imagining things, Mom,” I say, but she just waves me off with a dish towel.

“Let me say this,” she insists, setting down the container. “I’ve been so worried about you, Mitchell. Not because you couldn’t find someone, but because you never let anyone in.” She takes a shaky breath. “I was afraid you’d end up alone, unhappy.”

The guilt hits me like a physical blow, sharper than I expected. Here’s my mother, practically glowing with joy because she thinks I’ve finally opened up to someone, and it’s all built on a lie. The waffle I just ate sits like lead in my stomach. I tried to solve one problem, but it seems I’ve created another.

“We only just started dating,” I say, trying to downplay it, knowing full well that on my next visit, Garred won’t be with me.

“I know,” Mom says. “But Garred,” she continues, and my guilt doubles, “he sees you. Really sees you. The way he looks at you when you’re distracted—like when you were telling that ridiculous story about your office Christmas party—it reminded me of your father in our early days.”

I swallow hard, staring at the granite countertop as if it holds the secrets of the universe. “Mom, it’s not—”

“And you know what else?” Mom leans in conspiratorially, dropping her voice to a stage whisper. “If you’re worried he’ll get bored, here’s my advice: don’t be passive in bed, dear.”

I choke on air. “What?”

“It’s important for a healthy relationship! Men need to feel desired, Mitchell. Even strong ones like Garred—especially strong ones. You have to show initiative—”

“Oh my god,” I wheeze, wondering if it’s possible to die from second-hand embarrassment. The countertop suddenly seems like a great place to bang my head repeatedly.

A familiar laugh cuts through my mortification. Jemma’s standing in the doorway, holding an empty coffee mug and looking like Christmas came twice this year.

“Mom,” she says, barely containing her glee, “please stop traumatizing him. His face is matching the cranberry sauce.”

“I’m trying to help!” Mom protests. “These things matter! Your father and I—”

“No!” I cut in desperately. “No dad stories. Please.”

“All I’m saying is,” Mom continues undeterred, “sometimes you need to take charge. Show him what you want. Be vocal about—”

“Don’t listen to her, Mitch,” Jemma interjects, mercifully. She sets her mug in the sink and gives me a knowing look. “The way Garred practically devours you with his eyes? Trust me, you’re doing just fine.”

I groan, slumping against the counter. “Can we please talk about literally anything else?”

“Now, when I was dating your father,” Mom begins again, and I seriously consider making a break for the door, “I discovered that enthusiasm is key. It makes up for any lack of experience—”

“Mom!”

“—don’t be afraid to experiment—”

“Please stop.”

“—and remember, communication in the bedroom is crucial—”

“That’s what I was telling him.”

I whirl around so fast I nearly knock over the syrup bottle. Garred’s standing in the doorway, hair damp from his shower, wearing that soft cream sweater that makes him look like he just stepped out of a winter fashion catalog. His expression is caught somewhere between amusement and something else I can’t quite read.

“We need to go,” I blurt out, already heading toward the door. “Right now. Immediately.”

“But Mitchell, I haven’t finished—”

“Bye, Mom, love you, see you later, thanks for breakfast!” I grab Garred’s elbow and practically drag him toward the front door, Jemma’s laughter echoing behind us.

In the hallway, I fumble with my coat zipper, my hands still shaking slightly from residual mortification. Garred gently moves my hands aside and zips it up for me, his fingers brushing against my chest.

“Your mom really knows what she’s talking about,” he says softly, a hint of teasing in his voice.

I look up at him and then roll my eyes. “Shut up,” I mumble, trying to hide my embarrassment.

He holds my gaze a moment longer than necessary, then starts wrapping my scarf around my neck. “And,” he says, his lips twitching, “I have to admit, I’m curious about those tips she was about to share—”

I shove him toward the door, my face burning. “Don’t you dare.”

His laugh follows us out into the crisp morning air, and as we crunch through the fresh snow, I try not to think about how natural it feels when he takes my hand. Or how my mom’s happiness makes the lie feel heavier than ever. Or how, just maybe, Jemma might be right about the way Garred looks at me.

But mostly, I try not to think about how much I wish this wasn’t pretend at all.

***

The frigid air hits us as we escape the house, and I silently thank whatever deity invented winter coats, because my face is burning so hot I might actually melt the snow around us. Garred keeps pace beside me, and I can feel him stealing glances, probably trying not to laugh at my mortification.

“So,” he says after we’ve walked half a block in blessed silence.

“Don’t.” I hold up a warning finger. “We’re never speaking of that conversation again.”

A grin tugs at his lips. “Not even the part about—”

“Shush.”

He laughs, the sound rich and warm in the crisp morning air. “Alright, baby. Lead the way.”

My heart does a ridiculous little flip at the endearment, even though I know it’s just part of our act. But there’s no one around to act for, just empty, snow-covered sidewalks and the occasional car creeping carefully down the salted streets.

Around the corner, The Copper Bean appears, its brick facade dusted with snow.

“This is it,” I say, pushing open the heavy wooden door. The warmth and familiar scent of coffee and cinnamon envelop us immediately. “My old teenage sanctuary. I still come here every time I’m home.”

Not much has changed since my last visit over Thanksgiving—same exposed brick walls, worn wooden floors, and mismatched vintage furniture creating cozy nooks throughout the space. Holiday lights strung across the ceiling beams reflect off the copper accents that gave the place its name.

“The pastries smell amazing,” Garred says, sniffing the air.

“I’m still stuffed from those waffles,” I add as we join the short line, rubbing my stomach.

Garred smirks. “That’s because you stole all the strawberries from my plate.”

“Excuse me? You’re the one who kept raiding my plate!”

His laugh draws the attention of the barista—Emma, with her ever-changing hair color, this month a pastel blue. She grins when she spots me.

“Hey, Mitch! Back for Christmas?” She glances at Garred with clear interest, then at how his hand rests casually on the small of my back. “And who's this?”

“Garred,” he says, flashing his Hollywood smile. “Mitch’s boyfriend.”

Emma’s eyebrows shoot up, and her grin widens. I can practically see her mentally composing a text to everyone in town—because in all my holiday visits home, I’ve never brought anyone with me.

“Just a gingerbread latte for me,” I tell her quickly. “Still recovering from breakfast.”

“Make that two gingerbread lattes,” Garred says, then eyes the display case. “And one of those maple scones.”

I raise an eyebrow. “How are you still hungry?”

He shrugs, an easy smile playing at his lips. “Firefighter metabolism.” Then, quieter, just for me: “Besides, I’m sure you’ll want some when you smell it.”

God, why does it sound so filthy when he says it?

We find a corner table by a window overlooking the snowy street. Garred breaks off a piece of his scone and offers it to me without comment. When I shake my head, he offers it again, but I’m so full I can’t even think about eating. So Garred pops both halves into his mouth, devouring them in a second. A bit of pastry clings to his lower lip. Without thinking, I reach out to brush it away. The moment my fingers touch his skin, I freeze, realizing what I’m doing.

But Garred doesn’t pull back. Instead, he catches my wrist gently, his thumb pressing against my pulse point. “Thanks,” he says, his voice rougher than usual.

I withdraw my hand quickly, my skin tingling where he touched it. What am I doing? He’s straight. Kelly said so, explicitly. This isn’t real, no matter how real it feels when he looks at me like that.

“So,” Garred says, mercifully breaking the moment, “is this where teenage Mitch plotted his escape from small-town life?”

I latch onto the change of subject, grateful for the distraction from my confusing thoughts. “Sort of. Though I mostly just read Twilight here and dodged my brother’s attempts to drag me to football practice.”

“Not a sports fan?”

“I’m not exactly into the whole getting-tackled-by-sweaty-men thing.” I pause, realizing how that sounds, and feel my face heat up. “I mean—”

Garred cocks an eyebrow. “No judgment. Though as a firefighter, I can tell you sometimes getting tackled by sweaty men can save your life.”

The way he says it, completely straight-faced but with that glint in his eyes—I can’t tell if he’s flirting or just teasing. That’s the thing with Garred: everything he does seems to toe this maddening line between friendly and...something else.

“Point taken,” I manage, taking a sip of my latte to hide my flustered expression. “Though I think getting tackled by you would be a bit more dangerous than getting tackled by high school football players.”

Garred raises an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across his face. “So you’ve thought this through, huh?”

I nearly choke on my coffee. “That’s not—I meant because you’re—” I gesture vaguely at his everything, then realize that probably makes it worse.

“Because I’m what?” he asks innocently, though there’s nothing innocent about the way he’s looking at me.

Before I can dig myself into an even deeper hole, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Kelly.

Kelly: How’s it going with your straight prince charming? ;)

The reminder hits like a bucket of cold water. Right. Straight. I quickly type back.

Mitch: Fine. Everything’s fine.

When I look up, Garred’s watching me with an unreadable expression. “Kelly checking up on us?” So he looked at my screen to see who was messaging me.

“Yeah,” I say, pocketing my phone. “Making sure you haven’t run screaming from my family yet.”

“No chance of that.” He leans forward, his knee bumping against mine under the table. “I’m actually having fun playing boyfriend. You’re easier to date than I expected.”

Something in my chest twists. Playing boyfriend. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know.” His fingers trace the rim of his cup. “Kelly talks about you all the time, but she never mentioned how easy you are to talk to or be around. Or how cute you get when you’re flustered.”

I feel my face heat up again. “I’m not—”

“Like that ,” he says softly. “Exactly like that.”

At that moment, Emma swings by with fresh coffee. “Refill?” she asks, but her eyes are darting between us with obvious interest.

“No, thanks,” Garred says, still looking at me. “We’re already leaving.” He stands in one smooth motion, extending his hand to me. Without thinking, I take it, his palm warm against mine. He doesn’t let go, even after we step outside into the sharp winter air.

“Want to go home already?” I ask, still a bit dazed by our earlier conversation.

He gives me a sidelong glance that makes my stomach flip. “No. I want you to show me around while the light’s good.”

***

The winter air feels sharp after the coffee shop’s warmth, but Garred keeps hold of my hand as we walk, his thumb absently stroking my knuckles. The gesture seems unconscious, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, which somehow makes it worse.

Main Street stretches before us, strung with holiday lights that haven’t been turned on yet, though the winter afternoon is already fading into dusk. The cold has kept most people inside, giving the snow-covered sidewalks an intimate feel, like we’re walking through our own private snow globe.

“This place doesn’t really change,” I say, watching our breath mist in the cold air. “Every Christmas, same decorations, same shops, same everything.”

“And you come back every year?”

“Yeah. Actually, a couple of times a year.” I pause. “Sometimes I think about visiting more, but…” I trail off, distracted by the way his thumb is drawing small circles on my palm.

“But?”

I glance up at him, caught off guard by the genuine interest in his voice. “It’s complicated. Coming home always feels like stepping back in time. Like everyone’s waiting to see if I’ve finally become the person they expected me to be.”

Garred’s hand tightens around mine. “And who’s that?”

“I don’t know. Someone more like Adam, maybe. Successful, settled, pursuing the whole American dream thing.” I laugh, but it comes out a bit hollow. “Instead, they got me—still assistant editing other people’s stories instead of writing my own, still single, still…” I trail off, suddenly aware I’m revealing way too much.

“Still perfectly fine exactly as you are,” Garred says quietly, pulling me closer as we pass a patch of ice. His arm slides around my waist, steadying me, though I’m pretty sure I didn’t actually stumble.

We pass the old cinema, its art deco facade gleaming with fresh snow. The marquee advertises IT’S A WONDERFUL LIFE—Christmas Eve showing!

“They do this every year,” I tell him, grateful for the distraction from how natural it feels to be tucked against his side. “Half the town shows up. Everyone knows all the lines, but they still cry at the end.”

“Did you used to come here?” Garred asks, nodding toward the cinema. “To watch movies with Kelly?”

“Yeah,” I laugh, remembering those awkward teenage years. “She’d drag me to every single romance movie. Said I needed to learn how to be boyfriend material.” I pause, suddenly self-conscious. “Guess she was right.”

Garred pulls me closer, his warmth radiating through his winter coat. “I don’t know. You seem like perfect boyfriend material to me.”

My heart skips a beat. “Says the guy who’s literally paid to pretend I’m his boyfriend.”

“Paid with food ,” he corrects, his voice soft. “And honestly, you’re making it pretty easy.”

Before I can process that, a snowflake lands on my nose. Then another. And another. Soon, fat, lazy flakes are drifting down around us, catching in Garred’s dark hair and settling on his eyelashes. He looks like something out of a Christmas card or a Hallmark movie, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

“Come on,” he says, tugging my hand. “I want to see more.”

We walk past the old bookstore where I spent countless summer afternoons, the vintage record shop that still has the same faded posters in the window, the ice cream parlor that somehow stays open year-round. At each spot, Garred asks questions—genuine ones, like he really wants to know about my life here, about the person I used to be.

“This is where I came out to Kelly,” I say as we pass the small park with its frozen fountain. “She hugged me so hard I thought my ribs would crack. Then she made me promise to tell her about every guy I ever dated.” I smile at the memory. “It was zero then. She's still waiting for that list to get longer than two names.”

Garred's quiet for a moment, his thumb still tracing patterns on my palm. “Only two?”

“Yeah,” I admit, watching a cardinal land on a snow-covered branch. “I'm not great at...this. The whole relationship thing.”

“I’m not either,” Garred says, though it sounds almost too modest, considering he practically charmed my whole family in a day.

“Are you joking? You’re ridiculously good at this,” I tell him, mock-offended. “If I didn’t know you were a firefighter, I’d think you did this for a living. The fake boyfriend thing. You’re gorgeous, you have the charm, the manners, the brains…you’re like a total package.” I blurt it out before I can stop myself, and Garred actually blushes.

“God, Mitch…” He laughs softly.

Something in his voice makes me look up. He’s already watching me, snowflakes melting on his cheeks, and his expression makes my breath catch. Before I can stop myself, I reach up to brush some snow from his hair. His eyes darken, and he catches my wrist, holding my hand against his cheek.

“Mitch,” he breathes, and just the way he says my name makes my heart pound. He leans in, our faces just inches apart.

I don’t know who moves first—maybe we both do. One moment we’re standing in the snow, and the next his lips brush against mine, so softly it’s barely a touch. It’s tender, almost like he’s asking permission. His breath mingles with mine, warm in the cold air, and then he kisses me again, more certain this time.

His lips are impossibly soft against mine, and I feel myself melting under his touch like snow in sunlight. One of his hands comes up to cup my face, his thumb stroking my cheek with such tenderness it makes my heart ache. The other hand rests on my sweater beneath my open coat, steady and warm. I reach up hesitantly, fingers finding the soft wool of his sweater, and he smiles against my lips.

The kiss stays slow and sweet, exploring. His lips move against mine with careful precision, like he’s mapping every detail, committing it to memory. When I sigh into his mouth, his grip on my waist tightens slightly. The hand on my cheek slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head as he tilts my face, deepening the kiss with a thoroughness that’s almost devastating.

Then something shifts. Maybe it’s the way I cling to his sweater or the small sound I make when his tongue grazes my bottom lip—but suddenly, the kiss transforms from tender to hungry. His tongue slides against mine, and the taste of him—coffee, sweetness, and something uniquely Garred—makes me dizzy with want.

He kisses me like he’s drowning and I’m air, like he’s been starving for this. His hand fists in my hair, not rough but insistent, holding me exactly where he wants me as he explores my mouth. His other arm wraps fully around my waist, pulling me close until I feel the heat of his body through our winter layers. I arch into him instinctively, and he makes this low sound in his throat that sends shivers down my spine.

I lose myself in it completely—in the way his tongue slides against mine, in the little bites he places on my lower lip, in the way he soothes each one with a sweep of his tongue. My hands move of their own accord, one sliding up to his neck to feel his pulse racing under my fingers, the other gripping his shoulder for balance as my knees go embarrassingly weak.

He kisses me deeper, harder, like he’s trying to consume me. Then he gentles it again, slow and thorough, taking his time to taste every corner of my mouth. When I whimper—actually whimper—he groans softly and pulls me closer, one hand sliding up my back to hold me tight as his tongue does wicked, wonderful things that make me forget we’re standing in the middle of a snowy street.

I’m lost in a haze of sensation—the heat of his mouth, the strength of his hands, the solid warmth of his body against mine. He tastes like winter and promises, and I want to drown in him. Everything narrows down to this: his lips on mine, his hands holding me like I’m precious, the desperate little sounds he makes when I kiss him back...

“Well, well, well.”

Adam’s voice shatters the moment like thin ice cracking. We break apart, but not completely—Garred keeps his arm around my waist, and I’m grateful for it because I’m not entirely sure my legs will hold me up.

I turn around. Adam and Claire are standing a few feet away, and oh god, they just watched me practically devour my fake boyfriend in the middle of Main Street. Claire looks delighted, but Adam’s expression is unreadable.

My lips feel swollen, tingling from the kiss, and I can still taste Garred on my tongue. When I dare to look at him, his pupils are blown wide, his cheeks flushed, and there’s something wild and hungry in his eyes that makes my breath catch.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Claire says, not sounding sorry at all.

And just like that, the spell breaks completely. Of course—Garred saw them coming. He must have. This was all for show, another perfect performance from my fake boyfriend. The warmth of his kiss turns to ice in my chest as I realize that none of it was real.

Was it?

“All good with the check-up?” Garred asks casually, like he hasn’t just kissed me senseless, like my whole world hasn’t just tilted on its axis.

“Perfect!” Claire beams, rubbing her belly. “The little one’s growing right on schedule.”

I barely hear their conversation. My mind races, replaying every second of that kiss. The tenderness, the hunger, the way he held me like…but no. No. It was all an act. A brilliant performance for my brother’s benefit. Garred probably saw them coming and seized the opportunity to make our relationship look more convincing. That’s why he kissed me so thoroughly, why he made it look so real.

Because he’s good at this. Too good.

“Mitch?” Claire's voice cuts through my spiral. “You okay? You look a bit pale.”

“Just cold,” I lie, wrapping my arms around myself and stepping slightly away from Garred. I can't handle his touch right now—not when I’m still tingling from his kiss, not when every part of me wants to believe it meant something.

“Let’s get some hot chocolate,” Claire suggests, but I shake my head.

“Actually, we should head back,” I say quickly. “Mom’s probably waiting on us for dinner prep, and you know how she gets.”

“True,” Adam agrees, checking his watch. “It’s almost time for dinner anyway.”

The walk back is torture. Claire happily chatters about the baby, with Adam occasionally chiming in, while Garred responds with all the right words at all the right moments. I can feel his eyes on me, sense him trying to catch my gaze, but I keep my eyes fixed firmly on the snowy sidewalk.

When we reach the house, the warmth and smell of Mom’s cooking wrap around us, but even the comfort of home can't calm the chaos in my chest.

“There you are!” Mom calls from the kitchen as soon as we’re free of our coats and boots. “I was starting to worry. Mitch, honey, can you help me with the potatoes? Garred, dear, would you mind helping Jemma set the table?”

“Of course,” Garred says smoothly, but he catches my arm before I can slip away to the kitchen. “Mitch, can we—”

“Later,” I cut him off, pulling away. “Mom’s waiting.”

In the kitchen, I throw myself into peeling and slicing with desperate energy, trying to drown out my thoughts in the rhythm of cooking. But every time I close my eyes, I feel his lips on mine again, taste the coffee and sweetness on his tongue, feel the strength of his hands...

“Mitch, honey,” Mom says suddenly, making me jump. “You’re massacring those boiled potatoes. I need them sliced for frying.”

I look down at the mangled mess I’ve made of what should have been elegant slices. “Sorry,” I mutter.

Mom wipes her hands on her apron, giving me that look—the one that says she sees right through me. “Did something happen with you and Garred?”

“No,” I say too quickly. “Everything’s fine.”

“Mmhmm.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “That’s why you’re standing in my kitchen trying to turn perfectly good potatoes into mash while looking like someone kicked your cat?”

“Mom...”

“You know,” she says carefully, “when your father and I first started dating—”

“Please,” I interrupt, “no more relationship stories. I can't...I just can't right now.”

She studies me for a long moment, then sighs. “Alright. But Mitch? Whatever’s going on in that overthinking head of yours? Maybe try talking to him about it instead of taking it out on my veggies.”

Before I can respond, Garred appears in the doorway. “Table’s set,” he says softly. “Need any help in here?”

“Perfect timing!” Mom beams. “You can help Mitch fry these potatoes in that garlic-infused oil while I go call Dad. He should’ve been back with Grandma by now.”

Then she’s gone, leaving us alone in the kitchen. The silence between us feels heavy and tense as we work, frying the potatoes and avoiding each other’s gaze. Minutes pass, each one stretching out longer than the last.

“Mitch,” Garred finally says, stepping a little closer. “About earlier—”

“You don’t have to explain,” I say, keeping my eyes on the potatoes. “I get it.”

“I really don’t think you do.”

“Adam was there, and you had to make it look convincing,” I say. “You did great. Really sold it.”

“That’s what you think?” His voice is strange, almost hurt. “That I kissed you because Adam was watching?”

Finally, I look up at him, meeting his gaze. “Didn’t you?”

“No,” Garred says roughly. And before I can process it, he’s crowding me against the counter, his hands gripping my waist. “I kissed you because I’ve been wanting to since Halloween.”

Then his mouth is on mine, crashing into me, and this kiss is nothing like the one on the street. There’s no gentleness now, no careful exploration—just heat and hunger from the first touch. His tongue pushes into my mouth, demanding and possessive, and I can’t hold back the moan that escapes me.

His hands slide down my back, settling lower, gripping my ass as he presses me harder against the counter. The edge digs into my hips, but I barely register it because Garred is everywhere—the solid heat of his chest against me, the insistent sweep of his tongue in my mouth, the low growl he makes when I dig my fingers into his hair and pull him even closer.

One of his hands slips up under my sweater, his palm searing against my skin, and I arch into his touch shamelessly. He uses the movement to slide one thick thigh between my legs, pressing up in a way that makes me gasp into his mouth. His other hand cups the back of my neck, tilting my head just so as he deepens the kiss like he’s trying to devour me whole.

“God, Mitch,” he breathes against my lips before moving down to my neck. His teeth graze my pulse point, and my knees nearly buckle. But he’s got me pinned so thoroughly against the counter that I couldn’t fall even if I tried. His mouth is hot and hungry on my throat, alternating between kisses and sharp little bites that send sparks of pleasure down my spine.

I’m making these embarrassing little whimpering sounds, but I can’t help it—not when he’s sucking what will definitely be a mark into my neck, not when his hands roam possessively over my body like he owns me, not when his thigh is still pressed exactly where I need it. My hips roll forward instinctively, seeking friction, and the sound he makes against my throat is almost feral. Thankfully, there’s music playing in the dining room, loud enough to cover any sounds we’re making, a small mercy as I lose myself completely in him.

“Wanted this,” Garred pants between kisses, “wanted you—”

The front door opens with a loud thud, and we spring apart like we’ve been electrocuted. I stumble slightly, grabbing the counter for support as Garred takes a few quick steps back. We’re both breathing hard, and I know I must look absolutely wrecked—lips swollen, hair tousled from his hands, probably with a spectacular hickey on my neck.

Mom’s footsteps echo in the hallway as she walks past the kitchen door, calling out, “Dad and Grandma are back! Dinner in ten minutes!”

I don’t dare look at Garred as I adjust my sweater with trembling hands. My whole body is thrumming, my skin still burning everywhere he touched. The kitchen feels too small, too hot, charged with everything left unsaid.

My thoughts race like galloping horses. I have so many questions, but I know now isn’t the time—not with my family in the next room. So we finish frying the potatoes in silence, though I can still feel my heart pounding, feel the electricity sparking between us. When Garred’s hand brushes mine as I pass him the serving dish, I nearly drop it.

Just before we head to the dining room, Garred catches my wrist, his lips inches from my ear. “Mitch,” he says, his voice still rough enough to send a shiver down my spine, “God, I want you.” I take in his disheveled hair, dark eyes, the flush high on his cheeks.

His words make my heart flip, and I’m practically radiating heat. He nips at my earlobe, sucking it gently into his mouth, and my knees nearly buckle. I feel dizzy, like I’m barely holding myself together.

Oh. My. God.

As we step out into the dining room, my heart is still hammering, and I can barely think straight. Because maybe—just maybe—this isn’t as fake as I thought.