“Wow, a critique from the man who’s been trying to grow a big-boy beard the whole time I’ve known him.” I saunter over and give him a condescending pat on the cheek. “Don’t worry, baby. I’m sure it’ll fill in someday.”
He grabs my wrist and jerks my hand away from his face. “You’re so desperate to catch a man that you’re going full slutty elf?”
Desperate. The taunt rings in my ears as I yank my arm free and strut a few steps away from him.
“I think you mean sex-positive elf.” I pop my hip and twitch my skirt up even higher, gratified when his eyes track the motion. “Be honest. Is this working for you? If so, I’ll change into literally anything else immediately.”
He scoffs, as if the idea of him being attracted to me is laughable, and the unwanted dart of pain this causes propels me forward. As I close the distance between us, Wyatt straightens like he’s scared I’m going to launch myself at him.
Please. Like I’d waste this gaudy lipstick on his unworthy mouth.
I stop a safe distance away and give it one more try.
“Just to confirm, you wouldn’t recognize me, right?” I plant my feet and force myself to hold still while Wyatt’s eyes travel from my red high heels up to my bare legs, lingering on the faux-fur trim of the skirt where it stretches over my thighs. That same white fur circles the neckline of the sweater, which is high enough to cover all my good bits and tight enough that there’s no room for Jesus under there.
Wyatt’s jaw tenses, but his shrug is irritated. “You’re asking the wrong guy. I’ve spent the past seven years trying hard to not recognize you.”
The world turns red at his words. It’s the red of my heels, the red of my lipstick. That same furious haze consumes me every time I see or hear or think about the man standing in front of me, and I want to paint him with that same shade.
“God, just fuck off, Wyatt.” I’m horrified to hear the tremor in my voice, but I keep my spine straight and my chin high. “I asked you a simple question. Or was that too hard for your tiny brain to comprehend?”
Something flickers in his expression, then it flattens as he cocks his head and drags his eyes over my body one more time.
“You’re fine. Even knowing it’s you, I’m having a hard time convincing myself it’s you.” He crosses his arms over his chest, his gaze turning sharp. “Now do you mind telling me what the fuck you’re doing?”
His grudging curiosity is like mother’s milk to me because it means I’ve got the upper hand again.
“You really want to know?” I ask, all big-eyed and innocent.
“I really do,” he says with exaggerated patience, “because I cannot fathom what led the second-worst person I know to give herself a trashy makeover in an empty office right before the most important party of the year for my company.”
“The second worst?” I pout. “I’m insulted. I thought I was your least favorite person.”
“Dammit, CJ.” He drops his pretend patience, and that irritated growl makes me smile for real for the first time since he burst into my hiding spot. Until he opens his mouth again, that is. “Just tell me if you’re planning something that’ll fuck up my life again.”
And there it is. Unfounded accusation with a side of narcissism. The Wyatt Jones special. He’s as wrong as ever, and I wish like hell that I was dressed like a sane, professional adult for this conversation instead of Cindy Lou the Whoville hussy. But whatever. Wyatt’s thought the worst of me for years. No reason for this encounter to be any different.
The thought has me forcing a sweet smile back onto my elf-red lips. “Not everything is about you, you egomaniacal man-baby.”
His glare intensifies, and my grin widens even more.
“Okay, fine. If you really want to know…” I lower my voice to a whisper.
Unwilling interest crosses his face, and I beckon him forward, satisfaction rushing through me when he pushes himself off the desk and steps toward me.
“Can you keep a secret?” I ask breathily, running my tongue along my lower lip and looking up at him through my clumpy lashes. As I hoped, my about-to-confess-everything demeanor lures him even closer, so close that I can smell that woodsy pine scent that always clings to his skin.
“Spill it,” he demands, his hard eyes locked on mine. “Whose life are you trying to ruin now?”
I have to lace my fingers together to keep from slapping him, but losing my cool would mean that he wins, and I refuse. Plus he’s technically correct about what I’m up to. So instead of going for his eyes, I step even closer and rest my hands on his chest. He still thinks I’m a life-ruining bitch? Then that’s what I’ll keep giving him.
“You’d just love for me to tell you everything, wouldn’t you?” I murmur, pushing up onto my tiptoes so my cheek grazes the hair curling against the side of his neck and I can feel his chest tense as he sucks in a breath.
“I know better than anyone how vindictive your plans can be.” His voice is soft, but bitterness coats his words, so I slide my fingers under his tux jacket and dig my nails into his chest through his shirt. His answering hiss of pain is the sweetest music I’ve ever heard.
“You do know better than anyone,” I murmur, playing the role he’s forced me into every time we meet. “And that’s why I will never”—my lips brush his ear—“ever”—my tongue darts out for a quick stroke—“trust you enough to tell you a goddamn thing.”
I catch his earlobe between my teeth and bite, laughing when he grunts and pushes me away. Pursing my lips, I kiss the tips of my fingers and press them to his mouth, brushing my hands together afterward like I’m dusting off every trace of our encounter.
