The Billionaire's Holiday Hoax

The front porch creaked under our feet as Mom rushed forward, her arms already outstretched. She'd changed into her good sweater—the burgundy one she saved for church and special occasions—and her hair was freshly styled in that way that meant she'd been to Dolores's salon this morning.

"Harper, honey!" She enveloped me in a hug that smelled like vanilla extract and nervous energy. Over her shoulder, I could see Dad hovering in the doorway, Uncle Mike peering around him, and—God help me—Jessica's blonde curls bouncing as she tried to get a better look.

"Mom, this is Declan." I stepped back, feeling his hand find the small of my back again. "Declan, my mother, Susan Morrison."

Mom turned to Declan, and I watched her expression shift from maternal relief to something approaching shock. Her eyes widened as she took in his perfectly styled dark hair, his expensive sweater, the way he carried himself like he owned whatever room he walked into.

"Oh my," she breathed, then caught herself. "I mean, it's wonderful to meet you, Declan. Harper's told us so much about you."

I definitely hadn't, but Mom was already in full hostess mode, ushering us inside where the rest of the Morrison clan waited like a receiving line at a wedding.

The introductions blurred together—Dad's firm handshake and suspicious once-over, Uncle Mike's booming laugh, Aunt Linda's barely concealed curiosity. But it was Jessica who made my stomach clench. She stood next to Chad, her hand possessively linked through his arm, but her eyes were fixed on Declan with undisguised interest.

"Harper!" She bounced forward, all blonde curls and fake enthusiasm. "You didn't tell us your boyfriend was so handsome!"

Chad's jaw tightened, and I felt a petty surge of satisfaction. Let him see what he'd given up.

"Declan's full of surprises," I said sweetly, leaning into his side. His arm tightened around me in response, and I caught a whiff of his cologne—something expensive and woodsy that made my head spin.

Mom clapped her hands together. "Well, let's get you two settled! I've got the guest room all ready—" She paused, her face falling. "Oh, no. Harper, I completely forgot. The pipe burst in the guest bathroom yesterday, and there's water damage. The whole room smells like mildew."

My heart sank. "Where are we supposed to sleep?"

"Well..." Mom's cheeks flushed pink. "I suppose you'll have to use your old room. I know it's not ideal, but—"

"Perfect," Declan said smoothly, as if sleeping in my childhood bedroom was exactly what he'd hoped for. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

If only he knew.

Twenty minutes later, I stood in the doorway of my old room, watching Declan take in the full horror of my teenage years. The walls were still painted cotton candy pink, covered with posters of boy bands I'd been obsessed with in high school. My old bulletin board displayed ribbons from art competitions, photos of friends I'd lost touch with, and a particularly embarrassing poem about unrequited love that I'd somehow never taken down.

But it was the bed that made me want to disappear into the floor. My old twin bed, with its white metal frame and the same pink floral comforter I'd had since I was fifteen. Built for one person. One very small person.

Declan set his leather duffel bag on the floor with careful precision, his expression unreadable. He walked to the window, examining the view of the backyard like he was assessing real estate.

"So," he said finally, his voice carefully neutral. "This is cozy."

I groaned, dropping onto the edge of the bed. The springs creaked ominously under even my weight. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea about the guest room. We can figure something else out—maybe you could sleep on the couch, or—"

"Harper." He turned from the window, and I was surprised to see amusement dancing in his green eyes. "It's fine. I've slept in worse places."

I highly doubted that, given the private jet and the designer everything, but I appreciated the lie.

He picked up one of the framed photos from my dresser—me at seventeen, braces and all, holding up a painting I'd done of the old oak tree in our front yard.

"You were an artist," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Was being the operative phrase." I stood up, reaching for the photo, but he held it just out of reach, studying it intently.

"This is good. Really good."

"It's high school art class. Hardly gallery worthy."

"Says who?"

The question hung in the air between us, and I felt something shift. This wasn't part of our carefully rehearsed story. This was real curiosity, real interest, and it made my chest tight.

"Dinner!" Mom's voice carried up the stairs, saving me from having to answer.

Dinner was exactly the ordeal I'd expected. Dad grilled Declan about his job, his intentions, his five-year plan. Uncle Mike told increasingly inappropriate jokes. Jessica made pointed comments about how "nice" it must be to find someone "financially stable" at my age.

But Declan handled it all with the kind of effortless charm that made me wonder if this was just another Tuesday for him. He laughed at Dad's stories, complimented Mom's cooking, and somehow managed to deflect every probing question without actually lying.

By the time we escaped back upstairs, I was exhausted from the performance.

I changed into my pajamas in the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror above the sink. The same mirror where I'd practiced asking boys to prom, where I'd cried over college rejection letters, where I'd given myself pep talks before job interviews.

What was I doing? This whole thing was insane. I was sharing a bed with a virtual stranger, lying to my family, and pretending to be in love with someone whose last name I'd learned twelve hours ago.

When I came back to the room, Declan was already in bed, lying on his side facing the wall. He'd somehow managed to fit his tall frame onto the tiny mattress, though his feet hung off the end.

I slipped under the covers, my back to his, the space between us feeling both infinite and nonexistent. The bed was so small that every time one of us moved, the whole thing shifted.

"Harper?" His voice was soft in the darkness.

"Yeah?"

"The painting. In the photo. Why did you stop?"

I stared at the familiar crack in the ceiling, the one shaped like a lightning bolt that I'd traced with my eyes countless nights as a teenager.

"Life, I guess. College, work, bills. Art doesn't pay the rent."

"But you loved it."

It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. "Yeah. I did."

Silence stretched between us, broken only by the old house settling around us and the distant sound of a train whistle.

"I wanted to be a teacher," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"Before... everything. I wanted to teach high school history. Make it interesting for kids who thought it was boring."

I rolled over slightly, though I couldn't see him in the darkness. "What happened?"

"Family business. Expectations. The usual story."

There was something in his voice—regret, maybe, or loss—that made my chest ache.

"Do you ever think about going back to it?"

He was quiet for so long I thought he'd fallen asleep. Then: "Every day."

The honesty in his voice caught me off guard. This wasn't the polished, charming man who'd won over my family at dinner. This was someone else entirely. Someone real.

"Declan?"

"Mmm?"

"Thank you. For doing this. I know it's crazy."

He shifted, and I felt the mattress dip as he turned toward me. In the darkness, I could just make out the outline of his profile.

"Maybe we're both a little crazy," he said softly.

I closed my eyes, hyperaware of his breathing, the warmth radiating from his body just inches away. Tomorrow we'd have to face my family again, continue this charade, pretend to be something we weren't.

But tonight, in the darkness of my childhood room, surrounded by the ghosts of who we used to be, it almost felt like we were exactly who we were supposed to be.