“I’ve got you.” He purrs the words into what would be my ear if it wasn’t covered in evil elf knitwear. There’s ticklish pressure against my left arm, then a whisper of cool air. “Straighten your arms.”
Grinding my teeth, I comply, and he pulls the sweater down with a gentle tug until my head finally, mercifully pops free.
“Ah. There you are.” His brown eyes shine with amusement as I push my hopelessly tousled hair out of my eyes. “Evil as ever.”
His finger traces the line of exposed skin along my left side. “There’s a zipper here. Surprised you didn’t notice it since you’re usually so keen on the little details.”
His voice hardens on the last words, and I again try to slap his fingers away. “Paws off.”
This time, he lifts his hands like I burned them and retreats to the desk, his whole being radiating boredom as he watches me zip the sweater closed.
“If you think I’m going to thank you for this, you’re wrong.” I refuse to meet his gaze as I yank the borrowed sweater over the top of my red-and-green striped elf skirt, which is at least two sizes too small for my more-than-ample curves. Just my luck that the server I’m filling in for is smaller than me in every single way.
“The day you thank me for anything is the day the janitorial staff finds my pale, puffy body in this office, dead from shock,” he says.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.“ I wave my hands over my sweaty face. If you’re about to slather yourself in makeup, I don’t recommend doing it after wrestling with a bulky sweater in an overly heated office under the watchful gaze of your worst enemy.
Well, I may be unbecomingly sweaty, but I still know how to talk to Wyatt. Sliding a look in his direction, I say, “If it wasn’t clear, your pale, puffy corpse would be a very good time for me.”
“Can’t stop thinking about my body, huh?” He runs a thumb along his bottom lip, but I ignore him and bend to rummage through my bulging tote bag for something I can use to mop my face.
“No looking at my ass,” I snap, but when I glance over my shoulder, Wyatt’s eyes are everywhere except on me. My annoyance ratchets up even more.
“What are you doing in here?” I turn to the wall mirror and swipe at my face with the T-shirt I left my house in this afternoon.
“I think the better question is, what are you doing in here?” Wyatt shoots back.
I drop the shirt back into my bag, catching his reflection in the mirror as I do. He’s leaning against the desk scowling, and that’s when I realize he’s in a tux. A really nice tux. A tux that hugs his arms and stretches over his thighs. I’ve seen Wyatt in a suit before, but the sight of Wyatt in a tux is?—
Bad. Wyatt in a tux is very bad. Very unwelcome.
I snap my gaze away and reach for my makeup kit. “I asked you first,” I say as I start aggressively dragging my brush through my blush palette.
“I asked you last.”
I give a strangled scream. “God, will you please just leave?”
He pushes himself off the desk like he’s finally listening to reason, then drops back against it with a smirk. “Nah.”
“Real mature.” I angrily swipe the powder over my already flushed cheek. “But I slipped Sheila thirty bucks to use her office, so it’s mine for the night.”
“What?” Wyatt straightens for real. “I paid her sixty bucks!”
I pause with the brush hovering over the untouched side of my face. “Are you telling me Sheila took a double bribe?”
“Apparently,” he says darkly. “And I got double screwed.”
“Sad.” I resume layering on the makeup. “Fancy businessman couldn’t negotiate a simple deal.”
He answers with a low rumble in his chest that shakes a laugh out of me, and I pretend I can’t feel the prickle of his gaze between my shoulder blades as I rush through the rest of my makeup job. I scoped out this office as the best possible staging location a couple of weeks ago when I visited the Oakwood Club and finalized my plans to take down my nemesis. Well, my other nemesis. The non-Wyatt one. Good thing, too. This elf-y makeover is a last-minute addition to my plans, and I’m relieved to have access to a mirror, decent overhead lighting, and plenty of space to spread out my supplies.
Makeup done, I quickly braid my hair and secure it to my crown with bobby pins. Then I plop a chin-length platinum-blond wig on top of it all, uncomfortably aware of the man shifting his weight from foot to foot behind me as I tug it around until it covers every last dark strand. When I take a step back to study myself in the mirror, I’m pleased to see a stranger looking back at me. She’s got apple-red cheeks, glittery green eyeshadow, a shiny red pout that far exceeds my natural lip line, and dark slashes of eyebrows that match the heavy mascara. I look demented, but in a Christmassy way, which is what I was going for. Camouflage trumps vanity for this part of my plan.
I exhale, compose myself as much as possible, and spin to face the visibly bored man.
“How do I look?” I ask brightly.
“Jesus Chr—” He blinks, but his startled expression immediately dissolves into smug boredom once again. “Sorry, did you do something different?”
