Fool Me Twice at Christmas

  Fool Me Twice at Christmas

  (A Small Town, Fake Engagement, Holiday Romantic Comedy)

  Christmas Romantic Comedy Series

  Book 1

  by Camilla Isley

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright Pink Bloom Press 2021

  All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express permission in writing of the author.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  To chocolate and all chocolate lovers …

  Contents

  Dedication

  Contents

  One

  Chuck

  Two

  Kate

  Three

  Chuck

  Four

  Kate

  Five

  Chuck

  Six

  Kate

  Seven

  Chuck

  Eight

  Kate

  Nine

  Chuck

  Ten

  Kate

  Eleven

  Lillian

  Twelve

  Chuck

  Thirteen

  Kate

  Fourteen

  Chuck

  Fifteen

  Kate

  Sixteen

  Chuck

  Seventeen

  Kate

  Eighteen

  Chuck

  Nineteen

  Kate

  Twenty

  Chuck

  Twenty-one

  Kate

  Twenty-two

  Chuck

  Twenty-three

  Kate

  Twenty-four

  Chuck

  Twenty-five

  Kate

  Twenty-six

  Chuck

  Twenty-seven

  Kate

  Twenty-eight

  Kate

  Twenty-nine

  Chuck

  Thirty

  Kate

  Thirty-one

  Chuck

  Thirty-two

  Kate

  Note from the Author

  Sneak Peek — A Christmas Caroline

  Also by Camilla Isley

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Chuck

  What a beautiful, crappy day. The sun shines on a gloriously snow-lined Interstate 75 in staggering contrast to my stormy mood. On a regular day, I wouldn’t particularly enjoy driving for hours—I get motion-sick pretty easily, even if I’m at the wheel. But today I’d trade a limb, or possibly even a minor, non-vital organ, to be anywhere other than stuck in a rental car with my ex-girlfriend-turned-fake-girlfriend as we head home for the holidays.

  I tap my fingertips on the steering wheel and throw a glance at the emerald numbers of the car’s digital clock—and we’ve still got two hours of sunny road ahead! Joy of joys.

  Kate and I started fighting the moment I pulled up in front of our old apartment in Ann Arbor at noon to pick her up. Too late, in her opinion. A wasted half day. A totally reasonable hour for me, considering I had to pack, grab a bite to eat before the long journey, and walk to the rental office to collect the car, which of course wasn’t the right model. Toy-size, according to Kate; perfectly proportioned, according to me. Then, we argued about the dimensions of her luggage—exaggerated in my eyes, essential in hers—which also explained why she considered the car too small.

  “I have presents to bring home,” she argued. “Didn’t you buy any?”

  And when I said I planned to do my Christmas shopping in Bluewater Springs, she gave a theatrical eye roll. “Of course, why would you put some thought and care in choosing gifts for your loved ones? Do it last minute, like always. It’s your specialty.”

  To which I didn’t respond.

  But the bickering isn’t why we’re sitting so tensely in this overstuffed Nissan Versa we risk snapping in half at every bump on the road. No, we’re on pins and needles because, for the past four months, we’ve barely been in each other’s lives. Definitely not in person. Definitely not for hours at a time. And definitely not in such a confined space like the passenger compartment of a—allegedly tiny—car.

  Until today, our sole communications since the end of summer break amounted to the odd, informational text about momentous happenings in our days the other should be aware of to keep up the farce. As relationships go, ours grew nice and steady over the years as we progressed from best friends to dating to living together, but then crashed alarmingly fast on the way down—a falling, vertical smear of a breakup that flat-lined into this fake-relationship sham we’re now carrying out for the sake of our families.

  Anyway, now that she’s run out of criticisms, Kate is giving me the silent treatment. Which she knows I hate.

  Silence is uncomfortable.

  Angry silence is unbearable.

  When I can’t stand the bitter muteness any longer, I give up and ask a question on the only topic that still unites us. “How do you want to tell them?”

  Kate, who’s been pointedly staring out the window, her big brown eyes unwilling to meet mine even for a glimpse, turns on me. “Since you’re telling them, you can do it however you choose.”

  I frown. “Why should I be the one to tell our parents?”

  “Because it’s all your fault.”

  “If I remember correctly, you dumped me. So, if anyone should take the blame, it’s you.”

  Kate pulls a lock of her chestnut hair behind her ear and crosses her arms over her chest. “Not when you didn’t leave me any choice, with you being such an immature—”

  “Save it,” I interrupt, staring at the straight, infinite road ahead. “I don’t care to listen to a list of my shortcomings again. And I sure won’t stand in front of the firing squad alone. I wouldn’t even know what to tell them.”

  “Go with the truth. It’s always the best approach.”

  “Which would be?”

  “That we don’t love each other anymore.”

  Ah.

  My mouth parches as I remember the day she informed me of this fact. Needless to say, Kate’s decision to end things between us totally blindsided me. A sudden breakup with no chance of an appeal after a romance that had lasted almost a decade came to me as a real shock. A freezing-cold shower.

  And, okay, maybe I wasn’t grand-gesturing her every other day, and I might’ve taken our relationship a little too much for granted. I’m man enough to admit that. But I’d always assumed we’d grow old together. She was my rock, and I was hers. Full stop.

  Only, she had different plans. Plans that involved a new, shinier, half-Cuban rock.

  No, she didn’t cheat on me, I’m positive. Kate just moved on painfully and humiliatingly fast. I don’t know the details—I haven’t asked—but we still have enough friends in common for the news to reach me that
she has a new boyfriend. Marco Guerra.

  His Instagram account, where he delights his followers with daily sweaty videos of himself working out at the gym, has given me enough insight into this guy’s life to know he’s the complete opposite of my nerdy, computer-rat self.

  Marco is a stud, but, other than that, what do they talk about when they’re together? How many pounds he can bench press?

  Admittedly, the dude’s not all brawn. He must have some brain, considering he teaches Latin American and Caribbean Art to undergrads at the University of Michigan. That must be it: his knowledge of the arts provides him enough savoir faire and catchphrases to hoodwink women. Kate must feel oh-so-sophisticated for dating a professor.

  I keep my focus on the road ahead and don’t contradict her declaration that our love is over. Instead, I move on to the last practical step needed to put an official end to my first and only relationship: how to tell our families.

  It would have been easier if our parents were just old friends who’d always dreamed about their offspring getting married and merging the bloodlines. But no, the Warrens and the Roses do nothing in half measures. Our parents are not only the best of friends, but also business partners and co-owners, with a twenty-five percent share each, of The Bluewater Springs Chocolate Company.

  Bluewater Springs is renowned in America for exactly two things: our stunning fall foliage, and our delicious chocolates. The factory is the only industry in our hometown, a small village on Lake Michigan about fifteen minutes north of Traverse City, which makes us basically celebrities there. Big fish in a small pond, as that notoriety doesn’t extend much past the town’s borders.

  Our parents founded the business as newlyweds fresh out of college, and they’ve grown the organization for thirty years, turning The Bluewater Springs Chocolate Company into an international corporation that distributes to over forty countries worldwide.

  But the company isn’t just a business for us; it’s a dream we all share and want to keep expanding moving forward. My very first memories growing up are within the factory halls, back when both our families used to live in the twin attic apartments above the original production facilities. The apartments no longer exist, and have long since been turned into office spaces, but my entire childhood is crammed into that building.

  But I digress. The main side effect of our parents’ success and unbreakable friendship is the way they’ve been invested in my relationship with Kate since we started dating in high school.

  Now that I think about it, the familial pressure probably didn’t help us make things work. It might have even been a wedge driving us apart. The sense of entrapment. The obligations and expectations that our parents and the town put on us as heirs to the chocolate kingdom. And the unwillingness we had to disappoint them.

  I sigh, trying to find some middle ground, now, between us. “Why don’t I tell my mom and dad, and you tell yours?” I propose. “It’s only fair.”

  Kate pouts in that way that is not a ‘yes,’ but not a definite ‘no’ either. I’ll mark it down as a victory and interpret her silence as tacit consent.

  A small triumph.

  So why do I still feel like the biggest loser?

  Two

  Kate

  Frozen gravel crunches under the tires as Chuck pulls up in front of my parents’ house. The sky should be dark at five p.m. in the dead of winter, but the snow blanketing the garden amplifies the porch lamps and the light streaming through the windows, creating a daylight illusion that brightens the night with a widespread yellow glow.

  Chuck kills the engine and turns to me with a heavy sigh. All he does lately is sigh. He’s been doing it nonstop for the past four hours, and I’m already fed up with him constantly playing the martyr. I pulled the trigger on us, true, but our relationship had been crumbling for months when I called it quits. It was only waiting for someone to bring it behind the barn and shoot it. And that person had to be me, same as for everything else in our lives.

  Decide where to go on vacation? Kate, you pick, I’m fine with whatever you choose.

  Book the hotel? Kate, you know you’re better at this stuff than I am. If I do it, we’d just end up in a dump or paying double.

  Go out to dinner? Kate, I don’t care what we eat, whatever works.

  He didn’t bat a lash even when I brought him to a hard-core vegan restaurant that served only raw foods and kombucha-fermented cocktails. I was trying to shake things up. Not that he noticed.

  Chuck, would you rather play the latest Final Fantasy three millionth game, or the new Halo?

  Now, that would open up a debate.

  I can’t even remember a time when he didn’t pay more attention to his stupid PlayStation than me.

  Once, I even tried that silly drop-the-towel internet challenge to grab his attention. I snuck up on him while he was playing, dropped my towel to the floor, and sauntered to the bathroom naked, saying, “I’m going to take a shower.”

  Chuck kept pushing buttons on his stupid controller, eyes glued to the screen. “Yeah, yeah, Honey. Later.”

  What question he thought he was answering, I’ll never know. But if I needed any more proof we were over, that was it. Still, it was easier to stick to my I’ve-made-the-right-choice convictions when I didn’t have to see him or be so close to him that I can smell his aftershave—a sensual, oriental, woody seduction elixir I’ve never been able to resist. Same as I haven’t been able to resist his deep blue eyes or midnight black hair ever since hitting puberty. Chuck is hot in a goofy, skinny, nerdy kind of way. And, apparently, four months apart haven’t immunized me. Yet. But I’ll get there in time.

  “I guess I’ll help you unload your stuff,” Chuck says, turning his head toward the over-packed back of the car that took us an hour to sandwich together in a real-life Tetris game. “Then go home to see my parents.” Another sigh. Good thing he keeps annoying me with all the sighing; otherwise, I’d be losing my mind—and my will to keep him in the past—right now. “When do you want to toss the grenade?”

  “Right away,” I say without hesitation. “The sooner we can stop lying, the better.”

  We started the ruse back in September because we thought the shock would be lessened if we told our parents in person—then chickened out and skipped on Thanksgiving to avoid facing them. But now that we’re finally here, I’m starting to wish we’d just texted them four months ago and gotten it over with. Anyway, no point crying over spilled chocolate, this is the last push and the nightmare will be over.

  “You want to tell them now?” Chuck protests. As always, we’re on completely different wavelengths. “Kate, I’m tired. I just drove four hours. Can’t we give it a rest, at least for tonight?”

  “No. Waiting will only make things harder. I say we go in there and rip the Band-Aid—”

  “THEY’RE HERE!” A scream rips through the night, cutting me off.

  My mom runs down the porch steps in her pink Uggs, a white wool cardigan wrapped tightly around her shoulders to shield her against the winter wind. Dad follows close on her heels. Then Chuck’s mom and dad, too.

  Ah, a full welcome committee! We should’ve known.

  Chuck and I have barely exited the car when the parents descend upon us. The dads kiss us briefly before unloading the Nissan. The moms hug us and fuss.

  “How was the journey?”

  “We were expecting you hours ago!”

  “You look tired, is everything okay?”

  “Come, come inside, it’s freezing out here.”

  The questions come in such a whirlwind I can’t tell which mom asks what or who hugs me tighter.

  I’m carried into the house on a tidal wave of more kisses, squeezes, and jostled suitcases, and wash ashore in the living room. Logs crackle in the fireplace, warming the main room of my parents’ cabin-like home—a nice contrast to the chill of the outdoors.

  My pops, Teddy, and Chuck’s nana, Fern, are also waiting for us i
nside. The elderly are more restrained in their welcomes, mostly because old age doesn’t allow them to grab us as quickly or forcefully as our parents, but the enthusiasm is just as boisterous. We’ve only been away for a few months, but they all act like we’re soldiers coming back from the front.

  Admittedly, us skipping Thanksgiving was an unprecedented act. We justified our absence inventing a fake romantic trip to Niagara Falls.

  I went with Marco.

  I don’t know what Chuck did. Probably took part in a virtual fried turkey competition on his PlayStation.

  But our absence must’ve been felt more than we imagined.

  While Mom puts the finishing touches on dinner, the rest of us scatter across the living room.

  At once, I’m bombarded with the usual million coming-back-home questions. How’s school? How did you do on your finals? Are you eating enough? Did you lose weight, dear?

  Chuck’s nana always asks me if I’ve lost weight, but this time I’ve actually shed a few pounds since Marco convinced me to pick up running. Nana Fern probably wouldn’t approve. She’s already saddled with a skimpy grandson, and I’ve always been her chubby consolation prize.

  But, thankfully, I don’t have to admit the slim sin to Nana Fern as Mom comes into the room clapping to get our attention. “Come, everyone, sit down, dinner is ready.”

  I take a deep breath. Maybe having both families under the same roof isn’t a bad thing. We can break the news to them all at once. And, this way, I’ll also be able to control the narrative so Chuck can’t portray me as a heartless bitch who dumped him for no reason.

  I give my ex-boyfriend a loaded nod, then follow the others into the dining room.

  The rectangular table is laid for eight, with three plates on each of the long sides and the other two at the near end. An honorific spot for me and Chuck, I assume. At the opposite end of the table, a lumpy shape covered in a deep-burgundy satin veil looms over the room.

  “What’s that?” I ask no one in particular.

  “A surprise,” Abigail, Chuck’s mom, replies as she squeezes my hand.

  “Ah.”

  Sounds ominous.

  “Sit, sit,” my mom urges as she disappears into the kitchen.