My Wicked Winter War (Hot Under the Mistletoe #4)

Chapter 1

One

Now

CJ

I’m trapped in a puke-green elf sweater when I hear the unmistakable sound of a door clicking open.

“Occupied!” I call, trying to sound breezy instead of panicked. But as I’m the human equivalent of a deer with its antlers caught in a bush, it comes out high-pitched and squeaky.

I hold my breath at the silence that follows, praying that the intruder chose to vacate my holly-jolly hidey-hole. Then a voice I know all too well sends goose bumps rippling over my skin.

“‘Occupied’ is not the word I’d use for whatever’s happening right now. But please, carry on.”

“What are you doing in here, Wyatt?” I hiss, increasing my frantic efforts to either successfully pull this nightmare sweater onto my body or to rip it off entirely, ideally so I can set it on fire afterward.

“I’d ask you the same thing, but you’re clearly moonlighting as…

” My nemesis moves closer, and I stiffen, horribly aware that he’s soaking in every detail of my predicament.

“...as a past-her-prime elf desperately clinging to her youth in a skirt that’s too short for the dress code at Santa’s workshop. Did I get it right?”

The goose bumps disappear in a wave of fury, which is comforting. Angry, I can work with. Angry is my normal state around Wyatt Jones, after all.

“Does it look like I need your sad little attempts at humor right now?” I snap. “Either help me or get out.”

Even though I can’t see him, I know Wyatt’s right there, his big, stupid body far too close to my sweaty, struggling self. The air shifts against the exposed skin of my stomach a split second before a pair of hands lands on my waist.

“What are you doing?” I jump away with a yelp.

“I’m doing what you asked me to do, you lunatic.”

“I obviously meant for you to get out! Since when do you help me?”

Wyatt’s sigh somehow manages to convey both irritation and the depth of his suffering. “I’m helping you because I don’t want to be responsible for traumatizing the janitorial staff when they find your pale, puffy, oxygen-starved corpse collapsed behind the desk at the end of the night.”

I swear, if my arms weren’t trapped over my head in their sweater prison, I’d be throwing windmill punches right now to force him out of the room. This is my villain lair, not his.

“You’re the only pale, puffy corpse in here,” I mutter, twisting away when his hand slides up my side.

Another impatient burst of air wraps around me. “Stop wriggling. And you can’t even see me. You have no idea how pale or puffy I am.”

“Stop touching me!” I try to twist away, but his hold is too firm. “I don’t want your help, and I don’t want to know anything about your puffy parts.”

“Too bad.” That large, warm hand moves to my stomach, and I’m propelled backward until my shoulders bump against the wall of the general manager’s office in the fanciest event space in Beaucoeur, Illinois. “Now can you please. Just. Hold. Still.”

Wyatt starts to tug the fabric that’s got me trapped, and when his fingers brush just under my breasts, I start flailing even harder, struggling to pop my head through the neck hole so I can tell him to his face just how much he can fuck off right now.

At least I hadn’t changed into the lacy bra I’m supposed to be wearing with my party dress tonight.

He’d probably have an eye full of my triple D’s right now if not for my reliable full-coverage beige workhorse.

“Relax, Charlotte Jane.” His low chuckle sets my teeth on edge. “There are inflatable tube men waving their arms outside used car dealerships that have more dignity than you right now.”

His hands are moving all over me, and my heart’s beating so hard that I’m sure he can feel it slamming against my sternum. At this point, I can’t tell where the adrenaline from being trapped stops and the adrenaline from being touched by Wyatt starts, but I hate it. I hate all of it.

“This is fine,” I say a little desperately. ”I can take it from here. Please, just—”

“Off or on?”

“What?”

“Are you taking this off or putting it on?” He enunciates each word with insulting slowness.

Oh. “On,” I say sulkily.

“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?”

“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.”