An all-new, fake dating, holiday romance, filled with slow-burn tension, awkward family dinners, and one grumpy man who might just ruin Christmas for anyone else is out this week from Claudia Burgoa, and you can read the whole first chapter right here.
Chapter One
Winnifred
There’s always a black sheep in the family.
Always.
The one who somehow still manages to trip over the bar—even when it’s basically a speed bump? Yeah, that’s me. The human equivalent of a group text typo. The walking “we still love you, sweetie” at family dinners.
Yeah, I’m that person in the Wolfcraft family. They love me, sure. They also pity me. The worst part is that they try to fix me—all the time. As if I’m some sort of community service project wrapped in glitter glue and too many stories they don’t want to hear.
I’m the cautionary tale for my nieces and nephews. My siblings? They are out there achieving great things and collecting accolades like Pokémon. Me? I’m still trying to figure out how to file my taxes without crying because I hate numbers.
According to my accountant, it’d be so much easier if I had a system to pay my bills—and maybe fewer jobs.
I’m a consultant. A baker. A caterer. A freelance pet psychic once, but that was a weird week. I’m . . . versatile. That’s what my résumé says—in Comic Sans.
Look, I don’t want to blame my parents for my so-called life—but they definitely nudged me in that direction. Don’t believe me?
Who calls their child Winnifred Wendolynn Wolfcraft?
That’s triple alliteration. Triple trauma.
I was called the World Wide Web in middle school—WWW for short. It wasn’t funny—not to me. Instead of Winnie, everyone calls me Fred or Freddy. Why? Because there are way too many Winnies in the world. Why can’t they call me Winnifred? Win?
Nope, let’s call her Fred.
Why do people have to use nicknames to shorten every name? That’s just my pet peeve, of course.
But it’s fine. I’m in my early thirties, I’m . . . thriving-adjacent, and this year? This is my year to win the holidays at the Wolfcraft family get-together.
Sure, Trish, my oldest sister, just made partner at her firm. Liz had baby number two with her trust-fund husband. Ken got engaged, and—what did Glenn do again? Buy a house? No, that was last year. A car? A boat? Something with four wheels or zero. Honestly, I don’t keep track. The point is that they’re all overachievers. I’m what we call in the family a barely-chiever. Yes, it’s a term at the Wolfcrafts’. It was created during one of our “friendly” game nights.
Not to worry, though, this year I might be on their overachiever list—or what Mom calls The Wolfcraft Howler, which is just the holiday letter that goes to all our family and friends.
“Who are you talking to now?”
I jump, nearly spilling my coffee. Soren Thorn, my not-so-charming, curmudgeonly, and highly irritable neighbor, glares at me from the side of his fence like he’s auditioning for the role of HOA President in a post-apocalyptic drama.
“If you must know,” I say, gesturing to the kennel beside me, “Skylar is right here.”
He lets out a groan that sounds like it’s aged in bourbon. “You’re back to pet-sitting?”
“You sound just like my mother.”
“No, I sound like a concerned neighbor who doesn’t want to lose another succulent.”
I glance at the other side of the fence. His deck doesn’t have any plants. There’s some xeriscaping on the front porch. I don’t think he knows what a succulent is, but he has to bitch about everything.
“You have, like, one plant. And it’s not a succulent. That’s a plastic aloe I got you from the grocery store.”
Please don’t ask me why I got him the plant, because I don’t remember. I had to make up for something. Soren Thorn and I have a very complicated relationship. Too complicated. I should be thankful that, like me, he doesn’t get along with his family, or he’d be telling them everything that I do. Everything.
Or maybe we have this silent agreement where whatever happens in Colorado stays here and doesn’t go back to Winterberry Cove.
In a world where you can run away from your past, there’s always one person from that miserable small town who follows you because karma likes to screw with you. For me, that’d be Soren.
And the worst part is that we can’t get along. We’re like frenemies, neighbor edition. He likes order, and according to him, I’m some kind of punishment. I mean, he didn’t say that literally, but one time he was like, ‘What did I do to deserve you as a neighbor?’ So it’s the same thing, right?
“Even if it’s plastic, it’s still a plant in spirit,” he argues.
“You’re thirty-eight and you complain like you’re pushing eighty.” I cross my arms. “And for the record, none of my clients have ever damaged your plant.”
“Lucy,” he fires back. “She demolished my lemon balm, chased the squirrels into oblivion, and knocked over the birdbath.”
Should I remind him that he hated the lemon balm and the birdbath was mine? No, I’ll let him sit on that one. Lucy? Lucy was a Great Dane with the personality of a wrecking ball. When I was puppysitting for her, she saw a squirrel, launched herself like a furry missile, and the rest is horticultural history.
If anyone asks, it’s totally the landlord’s fault. The fence between Soren’s townhouse and mine is a proud three feet tall—basically a knee-high encouragement for dra-maaa. But you won’t hear a peep from me, because they haven’t raised my rent since I moved in. Either they’re benevolent angels sent to protect me . . . or they’ve completely forgotten I exist. Honestly, I’m not taking any chances. I’m keeping my head down, my mouth shut, and my rent exactly where it is. One complaint and they might remember I’m here—and I’m not emotionally or financially prepared for yet another issue in my life story.
“And I learned my lesson,” I say, holding up a hand. “No dogs over fifty pounds. Or with revenge in their hearts.”
“She was a horse.”
I give him an unamused glare. “She was a dog. Do we need to pull out the classification book again, Soren?”
He narrows his eyes. “Do not distract me. Why do you have a cat in your house?”
“As I mentioned, her name is Skylar. She’s not just a cat. And if you keep glowering like that, I’m going to start calling you that curmudgeonly guy who happens to live next door.”
He lets out a world-weary sigh that probably echoes into the next time zone. Look, I don’t try to get under his skin. I truly don’t. But on days like this, it feels practically therapeutic. It’s so easy to fluster him.
Also, distracting him is key before he calls the landlord and gets me evicted for harboring a cat. Skylar is my cousin Aiden’s pet—her emotional support gremlin. She had to visit her bestie in Birchwood Springs, and I was the only one not bound to a real adult schedule. So here I am, caretaker to the feline princess.
“Winnifred, I swear to—”
“Watch the language,” I cut in, pointing at the cat. “She’s impressionable. If she starts swearing, Aiden’s gonna blame me, and we both know therapy for cats is not cheap.”
His arms cross like he’s about to stage an intervention. “Your cousin?”
“Yes, Aiden. You’ve met her. Remember? She brought those cupcakes you refused to eat because they had glitter on them?”
“The one who taught you how to bake?”
I nod with a proud smile. “Exactly. So, really, you owe her. Without her, I’d still be pet-sitting full-time, and you’d still be passive-aggressively reporting me to the condo board.”
“What?”
“I sacrificed for you, Soren.” I let out a sigh that deserves its own slow-motion montage. “I gave up my furry clientele, my beloved side hustle, for the peace and tranquility of your fake aloe plant. The least you could do is let this cat exist in peace for the next few days.”
“You should’ve been a lawyer,” Soren mutters like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
I blink. “What?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I still haven’t figured out how to win an argument with you.”
“Well, yeah, but then I’d be copying Trish,” I say, shuddering dramatically. “And that’s a huge no-no in my family.”
He tilts his head. “Why?”
I roll my eyes. “That’s a Wolfcraft secret. I can’t divulge private information. It’s not as if you start giving me Thorn secrets to form an alliance.”
“Our families aren’t enemies.” He glares at me.
“They’re not close either. Not since your brother broke up with Liz . . . remember that?” I smile proudly because, unlike him, I do keep up with what’s happening between the Thorns and the Wolfcrafts. See, this is precisely why we’re frenemies. We never stood a chance.
He rubs his temples with one hand while probably doing those breathing exercises I taught him last year when he was stressing out about everything.
“That was almost twenty years ago, Fred. You have to move on,” he tries to use his best ‘I’m fucking calm’ voice. “Plus, whatever happens in Winterberry Cove is none of my business.”
He’s right. We have an agreement, and he doesn’t get along with his family. “If you must know, my parents have this . . . let’s call it a ‘competitive parenting kink.’ It’s like Olympic-level one-upping. ‘I’m better than you,’ meets ‘this child must be better and completely different than the others.’ As you’re aware, I’m the youngest, so I’m pretty fucked.”
Soren stares at me for a beat, then lets out a snort. “They really set you up for failure.”
“Right?” I throw my hands up. “Honestly, I’m just grateful I made it to adulthood with minimal therapy and only a mild addiction to cake frosting.”
“Should we talk about your chocolate habit?”
I gasp, hand over my heart. “Are you shaming my chocolate consumption, Soren? That’s . . . you’re being hurtful.”
He shakes his head with a smirk. “Obviously not. I’m just bringing up—”
“Don’t. It’s a coping mechanism, not a crime.”
Soren lifts a brow. “So tell me, how are you planning to claw your way onto this year’s prestigious Wolfcraft family nomination board?”
“Ah, the annual Hunger Games of the holiday season,” I muse. “So glad you asked.”
“I live in fear,” he mutters.
I tap my chin a couple of times. “Let’s see. I considered faking an engagement to Chris Evans, but apparently, he’s already married. Rude.”
He snorts. “That would’ve been ambitious for you.”
“Please. I can be very convincing. But since Chris is tragically committed and probably not emotionally available enough to adopt a puppy with me, I had to pivot.”
“To what?” he asks, like he’s not ready for the chaos about to unfold.
“If you must know,” I say with an exaggerated hair flip, “things with Chad are getting serious.”
Soren pauses like he’s buffering. “That guy . . . there’s nothing serious about him: except maybe a calcium deficiency.”
“There you go again. Criticizing my choices like I didn’t grow up with two parents who turned guilt-tripping into an Olympic sport.”
“I’m not criticizing, I’m just—”
“You want to know my plan or not?”
“Yes, please. Give me the SparkNotes.”
I hold up a finger. “Drumroll, please . . . I finally signed the lease to open my bakery.” I clap for myself, and Skylar meows like she’s proud of me too.
Soren blinks. “Wait, really?”
“Yep. An actual storefront with real countertops. It’s legit.”
“That’s . . . actually impressive.”
“Thank you. I’ll be accepting compliments in written form or chocolate.” I grin. “Plus, I’m hoping to convince Chad that we should move in together. Maybe even visit his family at the ranch.”
Soren blinks again. “He has a ranch?”
I tap my chin, because was it a ranch or . . . “Yes. His family owns a farm or a ranch in Glacemont.”
He stares. “That sounds made up.”
I shrug. “Honestly, I’ve never heard of it either. Somewhere in Utah, I think? I haven’t looked it up yet, but it sounds quaint. Like rusty scenery and snow angels.”
“You haven’t been to Utah?”
“Details, Soren. Don’t get bogged down.”
He squints. “And your mom is into this guy?”
“She loves what I’ve told her about him.”
“What exactly did you tell her?”
“That he’s tall, has a jawline, has a loving family, and might one day call me ‘darlin’ while feeding me pie.”
“You really sold her the perfect boyfriend package.”
I lean forward and whisper. “Listen the darling and the pie thing were made up, but the rest is legit.” Then I perk up. “Mom is excited for me.”
Soren shakes his head. “What’s his last name again?”
“Chad . . .” I pause, blink twice. “Chad . . . something.”
“You don’t know his last name?”
I point a finger at him. “Don’t ruin this for me, Soren. We’re in the fantasy-building stage of the relationship.”
He crosses his arms. “So, your plan to win the Wolfcraft Holiday Olympics is: open a bakery—solid start—and . . . possibly move in with a guy whose last name you don’t remember, to a town you can’t locate, on a ranch that may or may not exist?”
I shake my head. “No, you’re getting it all wrong.” I lift my hand so he stops while I talk. “He’d move here with me. Then we’ll visit his family often.”
“This isn’t going to work out.”
There he goes with his negative vibes. “It’s called vision, Soren. I’m manifesting . . . you wouldn’t understand.”
He exhales like I’m the one who is wrong in this conversation. “Fred—”
“Don’t say it,” I warn.
“—I’m just saying . . . maybe lead with the bakery,” he says, tone gruff but weirdly sincere. “Because that is something tangible. Impressive, even.”
My brows lift. “Did you just compliment me?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“No, no. I’m writing this down. Framing it. Getting it embroidered on a pillow.” I pause. “Actually, I don’t sew. Can you sew? No, impossible. You have strong, judgy hands.”
“I swear, sometimes talking to you is like trying to argue with . . .” He rolls his eyes.
“No. no, you need to finish that sentence.”
He tosses his hands up in the air and shakes his head.
“Come on, Soren. You can do it.” I give him a playful smile.
“My mother. I can never win an argument with her. Ever.”
“Thank you,” I say, beaming. “I’m honored to be a good opponent like your mom.”
“That wasn’t—never mind.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, and I’m pretty sure I see a smile twitch at the edge of his mouth before he buries it under a sigh. “I just don’t want to see you crash and burn over some guy with mystery credentials and imaginary livestock.”
I glance down at Skylar. “You hear that? He gives a compliment and then kicks my puppy in one sentence. It’s an art form you shouldn’t learn.”
Soren gives me a long look, as if he’s deciding whether or not to push further. Then, finally, he grunts. “The bakery’s a big deal. Don’t screw it up.”
My grin falters—just a second—but it’s enough to let the warmth in. Because beneath the sarcasm and stubborn glowering, that was . . . pride. Approval. The Soren stamp of reluctant support. And that? That means more than he’d ever admit out loud.
“I won’t,” I say softly. “I really want this to work.”
He meets my eyes for a moment, serious and unreadable. Then: “Good. Because I’m not babysitting your regrets if you change careers again.”
He’s so maddening. Not just because he’s clearly judging me like the rest of my family, but because he’s always there—right there—whenever things fall apart, no matter how hard I try to hold them together with ambition, duct tape, and the occasional vision board.
The catering business was actually doing well. Like, really well. Then fucking COVID came in like a wrecking ball—it nuked the entire operation.
Was that my fault? Nope. Did I still somehow feel like it was? Of course.
I still take the odd job because word of mouth says I’m good at it.
But here’s the thing no one seems to notice: I didn’t fall apart. I pivoted. I found other jobs. I didn’t go broke. I didn’t move back home or beg anyone to rescue me. I kept showing up, paycheck to unpredictable paycheck, and made it work.
And maybe I don’t have a fancy title or a corner office with a view. Maybe my siblings have group chats about interest rates, and I still pay my bills on the due date, and can’t afford to set them on autopay.
But I’ve never asked my parents for money, like all my siblings have done many times. Not once. That should count for something.
Shouldn’t it?
Unless the universe has another way to fuck this up for me, I’m finally going to win at life and maybe the damn holidays.
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