Chapter 3
Three
Now
Wyatt
I wish I could tell you how long I spent slumped against the wall in Sheila’s office. I suspect it was a lot longer than any rational man should need to collect himself after yet another blood-boiling, crazy-making skirmish with the demon who keeps crashing into my life.
Thankfully, an elaborate knock— four fast, six slow, then three fast—snaps me out of my fugue state, and I’m smiling an almost natural smile by the time I pull open the door and usher my sisters inside.
“Ten-four, good buddy.“ Becks is uncharacteristically solemn. “The dingoes have left the nest, and the hyena is circling.”
Drea snorts. “What she means is, Sebastian called to say the investors are starting to leave the hotel, and Mr. Randall just got here.”
Becks sighs in disappointment. “It’s like you don’t know anything about being a spy.”
“And you do?” Drea settles cross-legged into Sheila’s desk chair.
“At least I’m trying. We’re currently in Wyatt’s Evil Villain HQ, after all,” she huffs, mirroring her sister’s position but from the couch. “Anyway, Mr. Randall stomped in just now and threw his coat at me like Miranda What’s-Her-Name from that movie.”
“Priestly. Devil. Prada.”
“Girls!” My voice cuts through their squabbling, and they both zip it. I’ve been the crossing guard to their bickering their whole lives, and they’re still good about listening to me. “Please explain what you—”
But that’s when I clock what they’re wearing.
The green sweaters, the striped skirts… apparently those are the uniforms for tonight’s servers, and I just watched an impostor swish out the door to join the team.
Of course, the difference is that where my sisters are covered neck to knees in baggy elf-wear, CJ’s uniform was much shorter, much tighter, and much less Santa-appropriate.
“Christ, she did steal her outfit from a child.“ I mutter, and both girls cock their heads. Like always, it’s in opposite directions, Becks tilting to the right and Drea tilting to the left. Also like always, their looks clearly communicate confused pity for their eldest brother.
Becks suddenly brightens. “Oh! You saw the clown elf.”
“Yes, I saw the fucki—” I break off with a strangled groan. “What was she doing?”
“She charged into the kitchen and started giving orders like a boss,” Becks says.
“Nobody on the catering staff recognized her, but she was so, like, in control that we all just did what she said.” The terminally over-it Drea sounds impressed. “Goals, honestly.”
“Dammit. I knew she was up to something.”
“Ooohhh you know her?”
I ignore Becks and ask as patiently as I can, “What did the clown elf tell you all to do?”
“Let’s see, she told the chef to take bacon out of all the dishes and load up on tofu.” Becks wrinkles her nose. “Nasty.”
“We’re also supposed to leave all the silverware in the kitchen for the soup course,” Drea adds. “But like, what?”
“One of the other servers saw her adding green food coloring to the shrimp,” Becks says.
I shake my head at the litany that pours out of them. “I swear to god, she walked out of this room three minutes ago,” I grumble.
Becks brightens as she remembers one more detail. “Oh, and apparently there’s only Rumple Minze at the bar, whatever that means.”
A full-on Grinch smile spreads across my face. That one was all me.
“It’s the worst alcohol in the world,” I tell them. “Someday you’ll understand.” But fuck, CJ’s messing with the food? What the hell is she up to?
“Oh, and our new job is to pass the appetizers to the other guests but to let her handle serving Mr. Randall. If he reaches for anything, we’re supposed to, like, dodge him.” Drea shrugs. “I guess he has a bunch of food allergies or something.”
“She said that?” I ask sharply, snapping to attention. “Specifically, she said no one should serve anything to Mr. Randall other than her?”
My sisters nod, their eyes both widening at my tone. Drea opens her mouth to add what I can only assume are more insane commands from my nemesis, but my phone buzzes, and I hold up my hand to stop her. “The birds are here.”
“I want to see them!” Becks bounces on her heels.
“Sorry, kid.” I pocket my phone. “You both need to stay here.”
“But we have trays to circulate before—”
“Stay. Here.”
I leave them whispering, undoubtedly about me, but instead of heading to meet the bird lady, I find myself turning toward the ballroom, my legs eating up the distance down the service hallway.
Before I step through the door, I take a beat to adjust my cuffs and smooth my jacket.
I can’t afford to lose my control or my temper, which is difficult when I can still feel the sharp points of contact where CJ’s nails dug into my pecs.
The phantom burn reminds me that she’s escalated to wounding me physically instead of just emotionally like usual, and I swear to god, if she fucks tonight up for me, I might actually murder her.
So much for calm. I walk through the door separating the staff area from the center of the action and am hit with the sounds of a German oompah band.
“Oh my god,” I whisper to no one in particular. “It’s even better than I hoped.”
When I learned that Howard wanted live music at his black-tie soiree, I volunteered to handle it, then went out and found the weirdest possible choice for a holiday party designed to seal the deal with the seven-figure investors my CEO’s been courting for months.
The Max Müller Good-Time Band’s version of “Silent Night” is anything but silent—not that there are many people here to notice.
The Oakwood ballroom is a huge, high-ceilinged rectangle with three guest entrances on the right side and the kitchen, service entrance, and a small AV booth on the left.
A massive bar runs the length of the wall behind me, and decorated Christmas trees, evergreen garlands, and flickering electric lanterns are arranged in every available space, setting an elegant holiday mood.
Tables covered in pine and red-ribbon centerpieces fill the rest of the room, with a small performance space set up in the middle.
Howard’s VIP table commands a prime spot adjacent to the performance space, positioned so he can preside over the festivities like a king surveying his domain.
That domain, however, is practically empty, with the circling catering staff outnumbering the guests at least three to one. I glance around in bewilderment at the sparse crowd. It’s mostly made up of people I don’t recognize, with not a coworker or local businessperson to be found.
“Rumpleshaker, sir?”
A server in a green sweater and striped pants holds a tray of drinks out toward me. He’s in the male version of what my two favorite girls—and my absolutely least favorite one—are wearing tonight, and when I hesitate, he says brightly, “It’s Rumple Minze and grapefruit juice.”
“Oh, I’m aware.“ More than aware. I came up with that abomination myself.
The server gives me a look that says your funeral when I accept a glass, but his concern isn’t necessary.
I want something in my hands as I scan the room for a miniskirted escapee from the North Pole, but I won’t let a drop actually pass my lips.
Then I forget all about my search when I spot a scowling Howard in the far corner of the room, gesturing angrily at his long-suffering admin.
Maxine is biting her lip and consulting a battered clipboard clutched in her arm, her iron-gray hair not moving a fraction of an inch as she shakes her head briskly and taps the paper she’s referring to.
That tiny display of distress stops me in my tracks.
The unflappable Maxine is flapping, and finding out why just became more important than sniffing out what CJ’s up to.
The instant Howard whirls to snatch a Rumpleshaker off the tray of a passing waiter, Maxine slips away and I sidle over to her.
The stressed look on her face vanishes when she spots me, her plump cheeks lifting into a grin. “Well, don’t you look handsome.” She pats my chest right where CJ sank her claws into me.
“Thank you. And you’re elegant as always.” I raise my glass in a toast to her black sequined pantsuit.
“I wanted to dress for the occasion.” Her smile may look innocent, but I recognize that gleam in her eyes. Although Maxine’s one of the nicest people I know, she’s been as involved as I have in making sure this is a night Howard will remember for years to come.
That said, I’m not sure what’s going on with the crowd.
“Where is everybody?”
Maxine’s smile widens as she cuts a glance over her shoulder at her former boss.
“Just an awful mix-up.“ She holds the clipboard out to me, and I see two invitations to Howard’s “lock down the investors for my IPO” holiday bash.
Both sheets of heavy cream paper are covered in identical elegant script but for one difference: The invite on the left says the party starts at seven p.m., while the other says eight.
“How did this happen?” I ask, not nothing to hide the delight in my voice.
“It’s the strangest thing.” Maxine tries to look sorrowful.
“I hired such a talented artist for the invitations, but something went wrong. Mr. Randall put me in charge of so many last-minute details, and unfortunately, things sometimes slip through the cracks.” She shrugs and looks around the empty space.
“What a shame,” I say with a slow smile. “Well, I’m sure the room will fill up eventually.”
“That’s what I was trying to explain to Mr. Randall. He’s furious with the artist, but I told him the mistake is mine.”
“Was it?” I ask.
“As far as he knows.” Maxine looks smug.
Hell, she looks triumphant. I’ve only seen that smug little smile once before, and that’s when a client trounced Howard on the golf course so badly that he came back to the office, kicked a trash can, and broke two toes.
“He’s requested that I activate the company phone tree and get people here ASAP. ”
Requested? More like furiously demanded, based on the interaction I just saw.
“But yesterday was your last official day with Sounder.”
“Indeed. Mr. Randall seems to have forgotten that I’m here as a guest and that as of yesterday at five p.m., I officially turned over my credentials and my company phone.”
Meaning she can’t get fired, and her retirement is safe. I don’t know how she survived the past thirty-three years as Howard’s assistant, although she once told me that her kick-ass pension was the only reason she hadn’t slipped strychnine into his coffee yet.
We both look at our boss, who’s guffawing with the VIPs and mimicking swiping a credit card while his wife rests her fingertips on her necklace and frowns down into her glass of Rumpleshaker.
What a prick. Then again, if he thinks one of his “women be shopping” stories will impress the investors, maybe I didn’t need to work so hard to tank this IPO.
“So are you heading to the bank to send a bunch of panicky texts?”
The former bank building that now houses Sounder is a twenty-minute drive from the event space, so even if Maxine was willing to sweet talk her way through security to get back to her former desk, it’s unlikely she’d get people here before eight regardless.
“Cutie,” she tells me, “I am walking to my car, driving home, ripping off my Spanx, lighting a joint, and getting into a bath. But please call me tomorrow with the full update.”
“That’s a promise.” I laugh and kiss her cheek as a thought surfaces. “Oh, but what about the artist?”
We built our plans to avoid blowback for everyone. Everything is intermediaries, cash payments, and iron-clad contracts, and Howard, who’s notorious for never reviewing a thing Maxine puts in front of him, signed off on all of it.
His former admin waves a dismissive hand. “She’ll be fine. You know how good her work is.”
I shake my head. “Who?”
“Olivia,” Maxine says. It takes me a beat to connect the dots.
“Liv did this? How did she get involved?”
“She came highly recommended,” Maxine says as if that’s explanation enough. And after a beat, it is.
It really, really is.
Sure, Liv Fielding’s been dating my brother for a year now, but I know down to my bones that Hollis isn’t the person who got her this design gig.
No, that honor would belong to Liv’s best friend in the world.
“CJ.” The name comes out like a curse. I slam my drink down on an empty table and stalk toward the kitchen where the catering staff is buzzing in and out with food for the handful of guests in attendance.
I burst through the swinging doors to find the bane of my existence huddled over a tray of canapés.
“Charlotte Jane,” I bark, and goddamn it, she doesn’t even glance up from her conversation with the tattooed chef.
I stride across the kitchen and grab the soft, yielding skin of her elbow. “We need to talk.”
“I’m busy.”
“Now.”
“Why is it,” she asks, trying to shake off my hold, “that you keep turning up everywhere I am?”
“It’s not hard. All I have to do is follow the smell of brimstone and regret.”
She gives a condescending tilt of her head. “You think I regret a single thing about hating you? That’s cute.”
I smile grimly. “The regret’s all me, babe. If only I’d never gone near that mistletoe.”
Her mouth snaps shut, and as her eyes cut away, I feel a spurt of something. Accomplishment, I guess. It’s always nice to land a point against CJ.
Before either of us can speak again, Chef Samson snaps us out of our mutually assured destruction.
“Out.”
“But I—” CJ starts.
“Out,” he barks, and that don’t fuck with my kitchen tone has us both shutting up and backing away. I rest my hand on her lower back and guide CJ toward the exit.
“Pretty brave of you to get handsy with the help, Jones.” She glances at me with a feral glint in her eyes. “Feel like pulling back a bloody stump?”
I sigh and remove my fingers, which is a mistake, of course. She twists away, plucks a loaded tray off the table next to us, and breezes out of the kitchen with a demented cackle and a “See ya, chump.