My lips twitch in a smile, and I glance up to find Wyatt’s eyes drilling a hole into me. I rocket to my feet and gesture to the line of antsy kids and frazzled parents.
“Step right up, and I’ll let Santa know right now, if that’s okay with Elf Em.”
Em may be confused by the undercurrents in our group, but she clearly recognizes a friend in need and makes a shooing gesture before hustling the three children into the line.
“You have to keep being good while you wait,” she tells them. “Santa’s always updating his list.” She taps a finger to her nose, and the trio somberly tap theirs right back. When the line shuffles forward, Sophia tugs Reese along with her. She goes with only the smallest of glances over her shoulder at Wyatt and me.
“Thank you.”
His voice is so close to my ear that I jump and take a quick step back, wobbling on my heeled boot. He reaches out to steady me, then releases his hold on my elbow just as quickly.
“It’s nothing.” I take another step away from him, keeping my footing this time as I focus on not inhaling his clean, piney scent. “I’ve always been good with names.”
“It’s not nothing. That made their day.”
I lift one shoulder and let it drop, brushing off his compliment. Hearing him say something nice makes me feel… certainly not happy. Itchy, argumentative, and unsettled, but never happy.
“Has it occurred to you,” I ask, tucking my hair behind my ears so the elf points are back on display, “that I’m the trickster demon?”
“Many times.” But there’s a spark in his dark eyes, like he’s anticipating whatever I’ll say next. Like our fights invigorate him the same way they do me. Our staring contest lasts long enough that we both jolt when we hear someone calling Wyatt’s name.
“Mr. Jones?” A thin, balding man with chalky white skin and deep wrinkles shifts a baby from his right arm to his left, extending his free hand to shake Wyatt’s. “Greg Ingle. I sat in on one of your brown-bag sessions for Digham employees a few years ago.”
“It’s Wyatt, please,” he says, brow furrowed in thought as he pumps the man’s hand. Then the thinking lines on his forehead transition into crinkles around his eyes when he smiles. “Greg Ingle. You were in the Building 12 group, right?”
The man nods. “Been on that assembly line for almost thirty years now.”
“Must be getting close to retirement, then,” Wyatt observes.
“Past time! Next summer, if it all goes well. I’m looking forward to more time with my granddaughter.” Greg transfers the Santa suit-clad infant to his shoulder, rubbing a knobby-knuckled hand over her tiny back. “And I’ve got you to thank for that.” He turns to me and says, “Nobody ever took the time to go over my retirement options or run through what questions I should ask about distribution schedules and things the way Wyatt did.”
I return the man’s smile even though I kind of want to howl. Why does this shit come up every single time we’re in the same vicinity? Maybe he’s right about the trickster demon.
Pointedly not looking at the man next to me, I clear my throat and say, “I agree. Those workshops are crucial, and Wyatt’s team does a great job.”
“They do.” Greg turns back to Wyatt, who flicks a frown my way before returning his attention to the other man. “I almost switched to a different plan not long ago, but I remembered what you said to ask about hidden fees.”
Wyatt’s got his serious listening face on. “Good. So you got more details?”
“I did, and I steered clear.” Greg shakes his head. “But a buddy of mine made the switch, and he’s got less money now than he did ten years ago. Good news is, he’s only in his forties. Think he’s got time to build it back up again?”
“Possibly.” Wyatt’s still frowning as he reaches for his back pocket and pulls a card from his wallet. “Have him get in touch with me. I’ll go over his current plan and see if I can offer any advice.”
Gratitude washes over the man’s face. “I knew you were one of the good ones.” The baby starts to fuss, so Greg pockets the card with a quick thanks and turns to walk away.
“And to think,” Wyatt murmurs to me, “you wanted to slash my?—”
“Mr. Ingle?” I brush past him to follow the older man to the exit, a niggling sensation in my brain driving me forward. “Can I ask where your friend heard about the plan he’s in now?”
Greg looks at me like I’m dense. “His company,” he says, nodding at Wyatt. “They handle all the retirement plans for Digham’s union employees.”
“Okay, thank you,” I say distractedly. “Merry Christmas.”
My mind racing, I turn back to find Wyatt glaring at me.
“What was that?”
“I didn’t think you guys offered plans with crazy hidden fees,” I say.
