Page 8 of Terms and Traditions

“I know what I want my life to look like, Nash,” she’d said with pitying eyes and a sardonic smile. “Chester can give me everything you can’t.”

Code words for: he had money. What kind of name was Chester anyhow?

At the time, I was self-sufficient but nowhere near a millionaire. And just like my mom, she decided, without money, I wasn’t worth keeping around.

I groaned and flopped over, punching my pillow. How could Alexis still have such a hold on me all these years later? She’d only chomped on my heart and spit it out. No big deal. But I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of ruining my life again. I’d shifted my earlier business ideas into what eventually became Genesis Marketing, and I had no regrets about that. No regrets about not marrying Alexis either, since she’d shown her true colours. But I still wanted someone in my life. A partner, a friend… Someone more than just a friend. Someone who saw me—needed me and not just my money. I wanted Stephanie.

They inevitably fall in love.

They were the last words I heard as I set my alarm with enough time to squeeze in more than three hours of sleep and still be on time to meet Stephanie at the café .

I did the research. We’ll discuss the rules—a mandatory conversation for fake dating, I’d gathered—and promise not to fall in love, which was rule number one apparently. Little did she know, it was too late for that. Now, I just needed to convince Stephanie to drop the fake part and take a chance on me for real.

Chapter three

Stephanie

Ducking out early from the party was the nicest gift Nash could have given me. The tightness in my lungs eased the moment I pulled into the driveway of the cute two-bedroom craftsman-style bungalow, currently decked out in classy white Christmas lights, Liz and I shared on a quaint street of retirees. It was close enough to downtown for work, but suburban enough to see the stars. The South Hill was a nice neighbourhood for Spokane, definitely not one I could have afforded solo. Despite having a billionaire father and a millionaire boss, I’d been raised by my middle-class grandparents, who’d instilled simplicity and frugality into my soul.

Besides, who didn’t want to room with your practically-a-sister best friend?

I groaned into the frigid night as my full conversation with Nash looped on repeat. I couldn’t believe I said all that. Or maybe I could. When I got nervous, I blurted. I was self-aware enough to know this about myself, and that was half the battle, right? Didn’t make it any less humiliating. Maybe I’d wake up in the morning and get a redo. Doubtful.

A spicy sweetness hung heavily in the house when I stepped inside. My body relaxed after the hoopla of the party, and I entered full cave-gremlin mode, donning my flannel pajama pants and oversized United States Marine Corps T-shirt before cozying up on the couch in front of the Christmas tree with hot cocoa, my knitting, and a very capable Dan Stevens extolling the difficulties of writing as Charles Dickens in The Man Who Invented Christmas. Oh, and the plate of blueberry Danishes and gingersnaps Liz had left me while she was out on her date. I had the best friend in the world and a night of pure bliss.

What was not blissful was the blaring volume of my alarm the next morning, playing “Christmas in Killarney.” I moaned, hitting the snooze button on my phone and proceeding to stare at the ceiling for a few minutes. Part of POTS meant not springing out of bed at the speed of light when the alarm rang unless I had the urge to kiss the floor. Waking up was a ritual, taking several minutes to go from lying down to sitting to eventually standing. I’d been dealing with issues for most of my life, but the early days were scariest when my fainting spells were more common. It was a miracle I hadn’t given Nana a heart attack. But she’d rallied behind me as I’d tried everything from special diets to increased salt intake to finally medication, which helped but still left me having to be mindful of my activity levels.

Once I was relatively certain the floor and I wouldn’t be making each other’s immediate acquaintance, I tugged my Marine Corps hoodie on and headed for the kitchen, following the aroma of fresh coffee. The hoodie was old and almost decrepit in its twenty-year state, but wearing it was like getting a much-needed hug from my active-duty Marine older brother. Gosh, I missed him. Seeing Gabe, Ivy, and the kids was definitely an incentive to spend Christmas at the family cabin. Add Nana and my cousin Hailey, and that was the only reason I was going.

Liz had set the coffee pot last night after she’d marched my half-asleep hot chocolate sugar-spiked self to bed, bless her heart, so there was a steaming pot to indulge in ready by the time I entered the kitchen.

What I had not bargained on was the catastrophic mess. Flour, everywhere. Red blood splatter—wait, that might be raspberry compote—strewn across the sunshine-yellow walls. And every dish we owned between the two of us either in the sink, the open dishwasher, or on the white-and-grey quartz counters.

Then there was Liz. Crisscross applesauce on the oak hardwood floor like the kindergarten teacher she was, looking positively dazed. Her ditsy floral apron, covering an adorable pair of embroidered denim overalls, was drenched with milk. At least that was my hazarded guess.

“Wha… Liz? What’s going on?” I kept my tone light despite the inner panic clawing its way up my throat. I wasn’t good with messes or chaos—a product of my unstable childhood. Especially this all-encompassing kind of mess. My skin itched to attack it with a barrage of lemon cleaner and a bit of elbow grease. I winced as the compote oozed down the wall. Did raspberries stain paint? Deep breath. It was just food, not toxic family-relationship waste that no amount of mopping could contain. I could handle this.

Liz’s honey-brown waves were tangled into a messy bun, wrapped with a pink gingham hair scarf, and her green eyes glimmered with unshed tears.

I touched her shoulder, and she started, as if seeing me for the first time. “Are you hurt? Is it Ben? Did someone die?” Instantly, my mind ran inventory on a list of our mutual friends.

That jolted her into motion. She shook her head fiercely, then scooted forward, revealing a smashed vanilla raspberry-compote layered cake littered across the hardwood.

Greasy. Oily. Slippery. Needs soap and water. Where’s the cleaner? Why is she just sitting there? The words tumbled through my mind at the speed of light, but I didn’t utter them. My issues were just that. Mine. And I wouldn’t make Liz’s morning any harder.

Liz tipped her head back against the table leg and sighed. “White chocolate. I’m out of white chocolate for the frosting, and I was trying to get this done today.”

I stared at her, trying to reconcile the disaster on the floor with the sudden need to have a cake baked. “Why today? Was there a party I missed hearing about?” Please say no.

“No. I was stress baking.”

“Which caused more stress?” I asked, glancing around.

Liz shot me an unamused look. “Not helping, Steph.”

“Right. Sorry.” I rubbed my forehead, inwardly bemoaning the delay to my morning caffeine fix. But first things first: solve the mystery of the now-deceased dessert.

“I still need to make the marzipan for the cookies I’m making for you to take to the cabin. I was in a hurry and”—Liz flailed her hands at the smashed cake—“it slipped! Ben’s mom has texted twenty times already about wedding opinions, and, Steph, I’m done. It’s barely 7:30 in the morning! I just wanted to marry the love of my life and have a bunch of cute babies. There’s still three and a half months until we walk down the aisle. I did not sign up for wedding mania. I always laughed through Father of the Bride, but right now, I’m ready to elope!” She was panting by the time she got all the words out, hands braced on her knees.