Reese’s eyes are darting between the two of us. “Um, do you guys know each oth?—”
“No!” I snap, as Wyatt says, “Unfortunately. This is CJ.”
“Wait, this is CJ?” Reese says in confusion.
“Aww, Wyatt, you talk about me!” In the middle of the upheaval happening behind my sternum, I still manage to beam up at him. His discomfort is delicious.
“I really don’t.” He frowns, first at Reese, then at me.
“He doesn’t,” Reese agrees quickly. “And you said your name was Cece.”
“I didn’t, actually.” My mind races as Reese slides her hand over Wyatt’s biceps. “So you got together two years ago, right after I got fired.”
I didn’t mean to say that last part out loud, and the pleasure that blooms on Wyatt’s face makes it so much worse. “Oh, that’s right. You did get fired for writing an audit that recommended cutting our entire division, didn’t you?” He grins. “Sometimes there is justice in the world.”
It hurts that this is the first time I’ve seen anything approaching a smile from him since that night.
“No,” I snap.“I got fired for immediately deleting that audit, which I never should’ve written in the first place. And for loudly objecting when your CEO resurrected it on the shared server to present as my final work product.”
“Oh, CJ,” Reese murmurs in disapproval. “When you told me what you did for a living, I had no idea you were that auditor. How is it that Howard described you? Unprofessional conduct and work beyond the scope of the audit?”
My cheeks burn at the memory. Technically, Howard was right. I had been unprofessional when I wrote that vindictive second audit recommending Wyatt’s “deadweight” division be cut. But the instant I submitted it, my temper evaporated and guilt rushed in. Then after I was fired, I pored over every scrap of information I had about Sounder, plus buckets of outside research, and eventually discovered Howard had manipulated both the data and me. So I put it all into a third audit documenting much of what Wyatt said that night: The Financial Wellness Division is crucial to Sounder’s bottom line and its blue-collar workforce. Foolish, heartbroken me printed it out and wrote a tearstained note full of explanations, apologies, and an embarrassing plea for Wyatt to call me. I left it all with the Sounder receptionist because I was too nervous to face him.
But Wyatt doesn’t seem to know anything about my third audit. And Reese says she’s the one who wrote it.
Suddenly, things get a little clearer.
“So let me get this straight.” I lock eyes with Reese. “While I was getting fired, you were coming up with your genius plan to save the Financial Wellness Division from my evil, manipulative ways.”
“Apparently so,” she says coolly, holding my gaze as she tangles her fingers with Wyatt’s. “What a coincidence.”
“What a coincidence,” I slowly repeat.
Her expression practically dares me to contradict her in front of the man we both know will take her side. Of course he will. Just look at how he turned on me at the first sign of disagreement. He showed me exactly who he was that night and every time we’ve bumped into each other since. Hell, I should be grateful he didn’t get my pathetic note.
“You know what? You two deserve each other. You”— I jab a finger at Reese—“are stuck with this rigid, judgmental asshole taking you on vacations you hate. And you”—I pivot to Wyatt—“are in love with the exact kind of deceitful corporate bitch you think I am.”
I cackle when their expressions contort into identical expressions of shocked outrage and toss the remnants of my decorations into my tote bag.
“I’ll just leave you two to finish up,” I say, faking it until I make it out of there so I can cry my eyes out in private. “Have the best anniversary.”
Seven
Now
CJ
* * *
There’s one thing I know for sure: If Wyatt Jones thinks he can manhandle me out of this party and away from my carefully laid plans, he’s even more divorced from reality than I thought.
Pushing aside the memory of his hot, possessive hand burning against my back, I glide through the ballroom, which is as miserable-looking as it was when I went in to huddle with Chef Samson about the Howard-specific menu. Only a handful of the twenty or so tables are occupied, not counting my target in the back. The small clusters of people who got the correct invitations from Liv are casting confused glances around the empty room and talking quietly to themselves.
Well. Not that quietly. They have to speak up to be heard over the polka music blasting through the space. Choosing an oompah band for a classy Christmas party isn’t a choice I would’ve made, but if the goal was the loudest, brassiest option possible, well, they nailed it. Wham wishes they’d been backed by middle-aged Midwesterners in red and green lederhosen, wielding tubas, trombones, trumpets, and clarinets for this enthusiastic version of “Last Christmas.”
“Ooh, what’s this?”
One of the few guests in the room eyeballs my tray, and I reply in my most pleasantly neutral voice. “Crab puffs with artichoke.”
