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I’m thinking about what I was going to do before it rang.

Her hand on the couch, asking for mine to slip into it. Her fingers cold—she’s always cold, asking for more blankets. Me buying my first throw blanket because I’ve never had a woman sitting, cold, watching a movie with me before.

Cami.

It’s only been a few days of her staying here with me, but I can feel something latent from inside my stomach rising up, growing stronger. Of course I noticed her at the office—not just because she’s gorgeous, but because she’s one of the only employees I’ve ever had stand up to me about something outside of a raise. She put together a presentation and lobbied for her position, and it had nothing to do with making more money or moving up in the company. She was simply doing it because she loved it.

That’s why she caught my eye. And, in truth, I’ve always allowed myself little glances at her. Slight digressions from my otherwise laser focus on the business.

This entire thing was a very bad idea. Because, sitting out there on the couch, with Cami in her matching gingerbread pajamas, I wanted nothing more than to lean forward, slide my hand into her hair, and kiss her. Right there in front of the fireplace, like some sort of Hallmark movie.

I’ve never actually seen a Hallmark movie, but from what Cami has told me, they’re even worse than what she’s been making me watch. Maybe that’s a threat.

And that’s part of the problem.

I like that she levies threats against me. That she pushes me. That she said I was doing Christmas education, and now I am. For the first time in my life, someone is standing up to me, and I like it. Especially because she’s smart.

It’s obvious why she’s so good at being an account manager. Her customers like her. She’s strategic, well-spoken, straightforward. It feels good to be convinced by someone like her.

So I need to come up with a plan right now to keep my distance from her throughout this. The last thing I need is to form some sort of real attachment when the entire point is to have a fake fiancée. I meant what I told her—relationships complicate things.

I hardly even had a relationship with either of my parents, and I still grieved them. Spent most of my childhood being passed around to different nannies, and then the majority of my adolescence hopping from foreign boarding school to summer training program to pre-college prep. When I did see my parents, it was for a photo-op, a reminder that we were, in fact, a family. I could count warm memories with them on a single hand.

And yet, the grief over losing them felt like my organs were wilting. And anger I couldn’t shake. The worst part was that I knew I was grieving possibility more than love; I was grieving the chance to know them. They hadn’t even given me memories to keep of them, and for that, I resented them.

“Patrick, buddy, are you there?”

I clear my throat, desperately trying to cast about for what Chris was saying just a moment before. My thoughts didn’t used to run away like this before starting this whole deal with Cami. Before bringing her into my house and letting her set off a Christmas explosion.

“Right, yes, I mean—you can sign us up for all the excursions. Cami and I like to adventure.”

“Cami!” Chris laughs on the other end of the line. “Boy, I can’t believe I didn’t even ask her name until now. A beautiful name. Short for Camille?”

I blink. Is it? I have no idea if it’s short for anything.

Yet another potential hole in our story.

“Hey, sorry, Chris, gotta go—she’s calling from the bath. You know that means she’s ready for another glass of red. I’ll catch up with you later, big man.”

He lets out a jolly laugh, apparently pleased by the fact that I would jump off the phone to attend to my future wife. “You too, Patrick. Try not to have too much fun before the trip.”

I end the call, and rather than doing something sensible, like settling down into some work or going straight to my room, I walk to the living room. Like Cami might still be curled up there on the couch, head tipped up to mine, an expression on her face like if I tried to kiss her, she might just let me.

But the living room is empty.

The fireplace is responsibly off.

Swallowing, I turn and walk back down the hallway, taking the stairs up to my room. I go through the motions of my night routine, thinking it might help to wash the thoughts of Cami from my mind. Instead, as I brush my teeth and run oils through my hair—compliments of dermatologists and hair-retention experts—I’m picturing her in her own room. A guest bedroom in this house.

It hits me, for the first time, how lonely it must be for her here. While I’m sure her apartment is cozy, down to her very own bedroom, the guest rooms in my home are as clean and simple as the rest of the house was before she took to decorating it.

Maybe I should bring it up to her. That she could decorate her guest room, if she wants.

But no, that’s ridiculous. We’re leaving soon for the trip. Cami is not staying. She’s not really my fiancée, which is evident from the fact that we’re sleeping in two different rooms. That I took the first chance to get distance from her after several days of creeping closer and closer. Watching movies that made me feel both overly emotional and frighteningly inadequate.

Watching those movies, I could see Cami’s childhood so clearly. Parents who loved her, who took care to give her a magical Christmas every year, down to watching Christmas movies every night leading up to the holiday. Yesterday, she told me that recently she and her siblings have gotten into a competition to see who could produce the worst low-budget holiday movie from a streaming service.

So far, Bianca—the oldest and therefore de-facto leader of the four—is in the lead with a story about a little reindeer that includes a horrific tap-dancing number.