“Jealous?” Her already glowing cheeks turn even redder. “You wish.”
I’m shaking so hard now that my muscles are starting to ache, and CJ frowns. “Don’t you have a towel?”
I rip the dripping bag off my shoulder and sling it at her feet, where it slops lake water onto her shoes. Instead of complaining, her lips tighten. “Hang on.” She turns to rummage through her bag. And even though I’m moments away from death by hypothermia and more furious with her than I’ve been with any human being ever, my eyes still drink in the round globes of her ass. How can I hate someone this much while still wanting to take a bite of those luscious cheeks?
The water must’ve shaved thirty points off my IQ. It’s the only explanation.
“Here.” She straightens and thrusts a bundle of pink fuzziness at me. “I hope you die, but I don’t want it to be because of something I did.”
I’m starting to lose feeling in my fingers and toes, and the concept of free-hanging genitalia is a distant memory, so I don’t hesitate to rip the sodden shirt over my head and peel off the joggers clinging to the freezing skin of my legs. Once I’m down to my boxer briefs and running shoes, I snatch the robe from her, wrapping it around me and tying it as securely as I can. It’s too short, exposing my shins and barely closing over my chest, but it’s the warmest option I’ve got thanks to CJ’s attack.
A breeze stirs the hem of the robe, and CJ’s eyes, which had been glued to the ends of the belt knotted around my waist, fix on some unknown object over my shoulder.
“What will you use?” I ask through stiff lips, and she scoffs.
“Yeah, I’m not doing that.” Her gaze finds me again, but the rage is gone, leaving her expression blank. “It doesn’t look fun anymore.”
She picks up her bag and turns to walk back to the shore.
Feeling like an idiot, I call after her, “What about the robe?”
“Throw it away. Burn it. Or maybe,” she says without turning around, “you can give it to your girlfriend.”
Five
Now
Wyatt
* * *
It physically pains me to leave CJ unsupervised, but I have a bunch of birds to wrangle.
From the ballroom, I head straight to the Oakwood loading dock, where Helene’s Hollywood Herons are waiting.
Helene herself turns out to be a leathery-skinned woman with frizzy, yellowing hair as wild as a baby chick’s.
“Hello!” She greets me with a warm handshake, then gestures behind her at the caged poultry. “We’re delighted to finally meet you.”
“It’s, uh, mutual.” I lock eyes with the feathery dinosaur closest to me and fight back a shiver at its flat, evil stare. At least Helene didn’t lie; her menagerie of trained, rentable birds does, in fact, include more than just herons. “Is this the whole… flock?”
“Yes!” She shoots quick finger guns at each species as she names them. “Partridge, doves, hens, Moluccan cockatoos, and geese. I even brought a few swans, in case you changed your mind.”
Extra birds? Helene’s either brave or bonkers, and judging by the agitated way the geese are honking at the hens, I’m going with bonkers.
“Thanks,” I say. “But we’ve got the swan segment covered. The rest are exactly what I wanted, though.”
She coos into the cage holding the turtle doves. “Hopefully so! I do want to remind you that the cockatoos are a littl?—”
As if on cue, one of the peachy-pink birds start shrieking, and the other three join in. “They’re a little loud!” Helene shouts above the racket.
Loud? They sound like a gang of senior citizens complaining about kids in baggy pants while a fighter jet lands in the background.
“They’re going to be perfect as the calling birds!” I hand her a piece of paper, still hollering to be heard over the cacophony. “Here’s the schedule. We’re rolling out each day of Christmas in stages starting in”—I glance at my phone—“thirty minutes, give or take.”
“Okay! My assistants are—” The cockatoos finally simmer down, so Helene clears her throat and drops to a normal volume. “My assistants are inside setting up the fenced areas with food and water for the geese and hens, and the partridge, doves, and cockatoos will stay in their cages. And we’ll stay with them all night for the safety of?—”
“The guests. Good.”
