Oh No, My Best Friend Hates Christmas! (Criminally Captivated #2)

Chapter One

On December first, we go tree chopping. And by “we”, I mean Baz, because the last thing I’m ever going to do is wander around in the forest in clunky snow boots, trying to find a tree to hack at and then drag home. Sounds like uncomfortable manual labor to me. No, thanks.

Instead, I sit at home, barefoot and carefree, sipping warm cider from my favorite snowman mug and having my bi-weekly therapy session with Archie.

Archie lives across the street and three houses down, one of the seven of us who live in “the compound”, as we’ve taken to calling it. The compound is… special.

When I applied online for an administrative assistant position, never in a million years would I have guessed that it was for an assassin who lives in a secret compound in the woods of Kentucky.

Yes. You read that right. An assassin.

I started working for Stryker straight out of college, about five years ago. I was lured in by the pay – wowza – and the perks. Free housing, a pool, a gym, and two provided meals a day? Sign me up.

It wasn’t until I got here that Rosie, Baz’s mom and Stryker’s “handler”, sat me down and explained that the boss man is, in fact, a cold-blooded killer. But he only kills monsters and rapists and kid abusers. Rosie showed me a whole bunch of disturbing and terrifyingly thick files that detailed Stryker’s past targets. I threw up, negotiated a pay rate that was double the insane amount already being offered, and moved in the next day.

Surprisingly, the job isn’t all that different from other assistant jobs I had through college. I schedule appointments. I make phone calls. I pick up dry cleaning. It’s just that those appointments, phone calls, and dry-cleaning runs – especially the dry cleaning runs – often involve blood, murder, and a lot of money being exchanged.

After I accepted the job, Rosie set me up in Baz’s spare room as temporary housing until they could, and I quote, “build a suitable house” for me. Temporary quickly became permanent as Baz and I discovered we made good housemates. That, along with my extreme aversion to being gifted a whole house, cinched the deal quite nicely.

I had been at the job for a little less than a week when I met Archie and Sal. Stryker had “family dinner” blocked on his schedule and told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was expected to attend as well.

Archie, the resident computer and torture expert – yes, torture torture – was hosting that week. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t a man dressed in a full tuxedo and wearing a monocle. His family dinner garb is almost as outrageous as the outfit he wears for therapy each week.

He dons what he calls his “therapist deluxe gear,” which consists of khaki pants, a tweed jacket, and black, thick framed glasses. He wears loafers – in the house, which is not allowed – and a sliver of sock peeks through in the space between his shoes and pants. This week, chickens wearing Santa hats sprinkle a red and green striped background. Very festive. I approve. He carries a pipe as well, occasionally blowing on it to make bubbles float around our heads. Very annoying. I do not approve.

The outfit looks ridiculous on him, but not because it’s ill-fitting or anything. He’s had it tailored since our first meeting, when the jacket and pants both dwarfed his frame completely. It was like getting counseling from a dressed-up toddler.

I swat a bubble away from my face. It’s still like getting counseling from a dressed-up toddler.

While not technically a licensed therapist, Archie is the closest I’ve got to one on the compound. And it’s not like I could go to a real therapist out in the normal world. What would I say?

“Oh, yes, hello, Mister Therapist Sir. My name is Heidi, and I work for an assassin – yes, of course, one who kills people. Anyway, I’m desperately in love with my best friend, who used to be an assassin as well, and my only form of counseling up to this point has been from a man who cuts people up in his basement for work. Hmm? Oh, no. The killing and the torture aren’t the problem. It’s the unrequited love. What’s that? Involuntary hold? Why–”

“I could cut his hair, if that would help.”

“I’m not in love with him because of his hair, Archie.” I smile at him, teeth bared. “And if you get within ten feet of him with a pair of scissors, I will pour your entire stock of acid on your face while you sleep.”

He rolls his eyes.

“I’m problem-solving here, darling. Why don’t you try some of that?” he asks, British snootiness coming through loud and clear.

Have I mentioned that Archie is not the greatest therapist? I think he has too much childlike mania in him to truly be effective. Alas, beggars can’t be choosers.

“Because there’s no good solution!” I throw my hands up. We’ve been over this, oh, a hundred times? What doesn’t he get? “I love him. He loves me too, but not in the way that I love him. And I love him so much that I am going to accept the love that he is willing to give me while I show him the love he wants to receive and don’t mess up our love with any of my silly love! So I have to just keep loving him without loving him because he loves me. What is so hard for you to grasp here?”

Honestly! It is just not that confusing!

Archie’s dark eyes blink at me behind lensless frames, and he shakes his head.

“You can’t be helped,” he says. I groan, throwing myself back on the couch.

“It’s literally your job to help me. I’m not paying you for nothing!”

“You’re not paying me at all,” he replies dryly.

“Whatever. My point is that you can’t just give up on me. We’re in this together, whether you like it or not.”

I sit up to glare at him. He raises one thick eyebrow, looking down his nose at me.

“I didn’t say I was giving up,” he counters. I point at him.

“You just said I can’t be helped!”

“Helped? No. Manipulated? Absolutely.” He grins, and I shake my head.

“No.” I shake my head – hard. “No, no, no, no, no. Categorically no. No manipulation.”

I’ve seen that grin before. That grin is trouble.

“You do what you need to do, and I’ll do what I need to do,” he answers as he stands from the couch. Oh no.

“Stop!”

I lunge, just barely missing him as he flits around the coffee table. He laughs as I land on the floor, bumping my hip into a table leg. Oof. That’s going to bruise for sure.

“Archie, wait!” I call after him. “Come on! Don’t do anything you’ll regret!”

He’s nearly to the door now, and I scramble after him, half crawling, half running. The man is a menace, and if I let him leave this house right now, I just know he’s going to go off and do something insane.

“Can’t wait, mate! I’ve got some very important business to get to. You understand, yes? I’ll see you soon!”

I reach the door just as he crosses the threshold, almost getting a handful of tweed before he spins out of reach. I pause in the doorway, unwilling to step into the cold snow with bare feet.

“Archie! Come back here!” I yell after him, watching helplessly as he skips and slips across the icy road toward his house. “Archie!” I screech. Maniacal laughter is all I get in return.

“This is not going to end well,” I tell the snow.

“What’s not going to end well?”

I shriek, whirling toward the sound of Baz’s voice. His British accent is rough with disuse, reluctantly clawing its way out of his body. And yet, it’s still somehow the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.

“Baz! You’re back!”

He’s standing off the side of the porch, the thick trunk of an evergreen peeking out from behind him. He’s dressed in his usual winter uniform – jeans, black boots, and a brown winter coat. I know for a fact that underneath the coat, he has on a long-sleeve t-shirt with exactly three buttons at the collar. The shirt is either blue or forest green. The buttons are brown.

“You found a tree!” I exclaim, holding onto the door frame so that I can swing my upper body further out into the cold. “It looks perfect! So green!”

Physics or science or math or something has my body swinging back toward the house, then out again. This is kind of fun, actually. I smile, body swaying toward Baz – and the tree – once more.

“Have you already shaken it out?”

One year, we forgot to shake the tree and ended up with a spider infestation, a feral squirrel, and about five times more than what anyone would consider a reasonable amount of pine needles on the floor. It was a nightmare.

“What’s not going to end well?” Baz repeats. I stop swinging on the door frame, and my jaw drops.

That’s twelve words in one day – and not one of his special talking days. A regular shmegular day!

“Are you feeling ill?” I ask, then look at his forehead. Does it look hot? I mean, yes. It does. He is a hot man. Of course his forehead looks hot. But does it look hot hot, or just the usual hot?

Said forehead moves side to side, along with the rest of his head.

No, Heidi, I’m not ill, and you’re being weird again.

I huff.

“Well, excuuuse me for being worried about you when you’re acting strange.”

His eyebrows rise.

“I’m not acting weird! You’re the one being chatty Cathy. That is weird. You should come inside. We can shake out the tree later.” Meaning he can shake out the tree later. “You need some tea or something. You always get a little out of whack when you haven’t had your tea.”

British people are so peculiar.

He grunts, shaking his head again, but leaves the tree where it is to jump the porch rail and stalk toward me. Uh oh.

“Now, Baz, don’t do anything crazy.” I hold my hands out in front of me as I back into the house. This is so not good. “You like me, remember? You would never be mean to me, right?”

He doesn’t stop.

“Right, Ba–” I squeak when he reaches me and pulls me into a hug. A freezing cold hug.

I am in shorts. I am in a t-shirt. They’re both made of cotton.

I’m going to get frostbite.

“Baz! Let me go!” I yell.

He holds me tighter. I squeal and squirm as he lifts me off the ground, hands going to my thighs to wrap them around him. My bare thighs. Around his snow-dusted jeans.

I scream and fight to get away, but his hold on my legs only tightens, keeping me secure.

I hate him. All that in love nonsense from before? I take it back. He is the worst person on all of planet Earth, and I hate him.

Well, the worst person except for that Russian guy. And that one serial killer. And people who commit crimes against children. And people who commit crimes against women. And Archie.

Okay, he’s not that bad.

His icicle hand moves from my thigh to the – previously warm! – back of my knee, and I change my mind. He definitely is that bad.

“Why have you chosen to torture me this day, then? Did I do something egregiously terrible? Let me guess!” I put a finger to my chin and tap. “I… forgot to take the trash out?”

He grunts, and I am forced to concede that I have never once taken out the trash since we’ve lived together.

“I… left my painting supplies at the kitchen table again?”

Another grunt. Another acknowledgment that these are not things he cares about me doing. I wrack my brain, trying to think of what I could have done to deserve this.

“Oh! I know!” I exclaim. “I ate the last cookie from those ones your mom made! Your favorites… What were they called? Hob-somethings…”

His hands convulse on my skin.

Heidi, I don’t care about the stupid cookies. Stop being obtuse.

I groan. Why must he be so stubborn? Pouting, I mostly answer his question.

“It’s just Archie. You know how he is – always scheming and plotting something nefarious.” All true. “I was giving him a friendly warning to the universe that his current ill-advised scheme isn’t going to go well.”

I blink up at him innocently, and he eyes me suspiciously, which is a little bit offensive, actually.

“Have I ever lied to you?”

I mean, okay, only every moment of every day, but he doesn’t know that. And anyway, is it really lying if I’m just keeping some friendship-ending information to myself? I think not!

Baz shakes his head, then moves us out of the doorway, walking the two of us inside and kicking the door shut behind him.

Uh…

Is he going to let me down? It’s cold up here.

I get my answer when he does not set me down, opting instead to carry me through the house and into the sunroom off the kitchen.

He sets me on my favorite couch, which is actually a full-sized bed on a wooden platform that hangs from the ceiling on four heavy-duty chains we stole from Archie. Baz and Stryker built it for me two summers ago, the absolute gems.

I smile up at my gem of a bestie now as he covers me with the big throw blanket we keep out here. In return, I am blessed with a rare and wondrous Baz smile – not the tiny twitch of the lips he usually gives, but a genuine tooth-brandishing thing. It’s small, of course, but glorious all the same. Soft. Caring. Heartbreakingly sweet in its rarity.

My eyes swell with tears, and his teeth disappear. His hand cradles my cheek.

It’s just a smile, Heidi. Nothing worth your tears.

I sniff. That’s what he thinks.

He shakes his head, then turns toward our fancy outdoor fireplace. It’s a huge metal affair that strongly resembles an egg with a flat top. A cylindrical metal chute goes from the top of it all the way up to the ceiling, where it disappears into the roof, shooting plumes of smoke up into the sky.

Once Bazzy has flames brewing in her belly, he wanders back into the house, patting my head as he passes.

Be right back.

I snuggle down under my blankie and watch the fire dance, waiting. I’m lightly dozing by the time he returns, carrying a mug, a bright purple book, and a bento box. I perk up.

“Your mom has lunch ready already?”

I’m salivating. There is nothing, and I mean nothing , like a Rosie bento lunch. She uses animal-shaped rice molds and special nori cutters to make cute little faces to put on the rice animals. She cuts vegetables into flowers and stars. Once, she even made little octopus sausages and created an entire oceanscape out of Jell-O and graham cracker crumbs. The woman is a creative, whimsical genius.

Baz waits for me to sit up, then hands me the bento box of goodness. I squeal when I open it, revealing itty-bitty rice penguins. Their noses are carrots, and their little bellies are covered by nori wings.

They are so stinking cute .

The couch swings as I celebrate their utter adorable factor.

Baz, patient as ever, stands by until the couch – and I – settle, then he grabs a wooden tray hanging from a hook on the wall and sets it beside me. He puts down the mug, and I see that it is full of steaming hot chocolate and marshmallows – penguin shaped marshmallows. I melt.

He sets the book down next to me as well, and I see that it’s the best-friends-to-lovers book I’m halfway through. I blush, hoping he thinks the red blossoming on my cheeks is because of the cold…

You know, the cold that I can’t feel because he lit a fire for me. Mmhm. Flawless.

He gives my head a pat again, then heads to the door that leads from the sunroom to the bad place – outside.

I watch through the screen windows as he approaches our large log pile, shedding his coat as he goes to reveal a forest-green long-sleeve shirt. I send a quick wish into the universe that he would shed that too, which goes unanswered, reminding me that I am supposed to be being respectful , not wishing for a chance to ogle a shirtless Basil.

Pity about those pesky morals I’ve got.

Baz tosses his coat over a low-hanging tree branch, then lifts a large, sturdy ax from the base of it, throwing the sharp tool up and over to rest on his shoulder.

I wipe a spot of drool off my chin.

Respectful, Heidi. Respectful.

I force my jaw shut as he grabs a hunk of log from the pile and stands it on a short, extra-wide stump. Wasting no time, he rears back with the ax, then slams it down, splitting the log in half. He repeats the motions until the log is small enough to fit in our fireplaces, then he adds the pieces to the dwindling pile of firewood leaning against the house next to the sunroom door.

I beam at him as he approaches with the cut wood, and his eyes move from my smiling face to the book lying unopened at my side.

Whoops.

“All right, all right! No need to be bossy!”

I laugh and give him a crisp salute.

He huffs what might be considered a laugh – if one is generous – and returns to his chopping.

I practice some much-needed self-control and do not watch him, instead picking up my book, muttering a firm “ respectful” as I do.

Flipping the pages open to my bookmark – chapter eleven – I desperately hope that the main characters start kissing soon. If anyone should be allowed to kiss their best friend, it’s the cutie pie best friends in this story.

My delusional hopes are dashed immediately by the chapter title: “Cats and people are terrible distractions when one is trying to kiss someone else.” However, the fact that they’re at least trying to kiss is promising enough to keep me going.

The problem being, of course, that they don’t kiss. I get all the way to the end of chapter fourteen, and not a single pair of lips meet.

I believe I am being personally victimized by the author. She knows how much I want them to kiss, and she’s taunting me with it. And me? I just keep going back for more. She has given me the mere glimpse of a drug, and I’m hooked.

I sigh and set the book aside. The torture can continue another day.

My eyes wander but eventually land on Baz as he swings the ax up and then cracks it down, splitting a log in two like it’s butter.

It’s for the best, probably , I think, as he quarters the log, arms stretching the fabric of his shirtsleeves to their limit. We don’t need me getting any ideas.