Chapter 8
Eight
December, Four Years Ago
Wyatt
“Right this way, sir!“
Well, shit. I already feel like a jackass in my outfit. Does this kid really need to “sir” me on top of that? Granted, he’s so young that I probably do look like his much older brother or, god forbid, his very young uncle. But it still rankles.
“Your wife’s already on the float, so once you’re settled in, we’re ready to go,” he tells me, and even though I know I’m playing a Victorian-era husband with another volunteer from the city tourism bureau’s advisory board playing a Victorian wife, the word makes me stumble.
“Wife. Ha. Right,” I say awkwardly.
The youthful parade worker doesn’t slow a bit when the walkie-talkie on his hip squawks and he grabs it to exchange a flurry of information with the woman on the other end.
This town takes the Yule Love Beaucoeur Parade extremely seriously, and apparently that includes moving participants onto the floats with the precision needed to invade a hostile country.
“Here we are!” My escort gestures at the flatbed trailer. “Once you’re settled, we can get you into the lineup.”
Thanks to my nightmare schedule over the past month, this is my first time seeing the tourism bureau’s float. It’s designed to look like a cozy, old-timey sitting room with a fireplace and decorated mantle, a huge tree, and an antique love seat on an Oriental rug.
Eyeing all that upholstery, I quip, “Hope it doesn’t snow.” The volunteer gapes at me like I just suggested we hijack the float and plow into city hall.
“It never snows on the Yule Love Parade. Never!” he croaks.
Instead of asking how many of these parades he’s been alive for, I introduce myself to the volunteers who’ll be walking alongside the trailer.
They’re dressed as nineteenth-century carolers and will be handing out candy along the route.
I wheedle a handful of fun-sized Snickers bars from the longtime receptionist at my dentist’s office after a winking promise that I’ll floss as soon as I get home.
I’m about to hop onto the flatbed when I glance at the woman who’s already settled on the scroll-back sofa, her massive skirts taking up at least two-thirds of the seat. Although she’s covered from neck to toes and her face is partially obscured by her hat, I immediately know.
Turning to the volunteer, I say urgently, “Switch with me.”
“C-come again?” the kid stammers.
“Let’s switch. I’ll give you all the cash in my wallet to trade clothes with me.”
He looks around nervously. “Um. Sir. I can’t—”
“Of course. Of course it’s you.”
CJ’s incredulous voice hits my ears like a hammer, and I say to the kid, “All the cash in my wallet and my BMW.”
The worker looks from me to the float, where my bitter enemy has stalked to the edge of the trailer and is standing with her arms folded over her chest. “Be honest,“ she bites out. “Do you hibernate year-round and crawl out of your hole to attend the one event I’ll be at each December?”
“Yes,” I say, switching to the bored monotone that seems to infuriate her. “My entire life is built around you. I devote eleven months to planning my next ambush. Fingers crossed this is the time I finally destroy you.”
I wave my hands in her direction, showing her my crossed fingers, and the volunteer’s gaze shifts nervously from me to her then back again.
“Um, is there a problem?”
“Yes,” I say.
“No.” CJ snaps. “Just get up here and pretend to be a grown-up for the next ninety minutes.”
When I grumble, “I will if you will,” she throws her hands into the air and flounces back to the couch.
“So um, if you two are settled…“ The kid fumbles for his walkie-talkie. “Sorry, I need to go… somewhere else.”
He bolts before I can offer him my whole retirement account to bail me out of this, and I’m left alone with my very irate wife.
Muttering darkly, I clamber up, my high-collared white shirt, red vest, and thick wool coat severely restricting my motions.
The man at the costume shop assured me the getup’s perfect for this year’s parade theme of “Christmas Through the Years,” but he didn’t warn me how tight his only available sizes would be on me.
The disdainful look CJ gives my bowler hat makes me want to rip it off my head and toss it into the crowd, but she dismisses me just as quickly, turning to face forward. “If I’d known you’d be the person I’d be sitting with—”
“Oh, believe me, sweetheart, the loathing is mutual,” I snap, sliding my hands into my pockets in search of my gloves. Then I remember that this coat doesn’t have pockets. That means my gloves are still on my passenger seat where I set them so I wouldn’t forget to take them with me. Shit.
Our float driver chooses this moment to maneuver us into the parade lineup, and the lurch of our flatbed has CJ gripping my arm to keep her balance. Before I can flex a single bicep under her fingers, she straightens and yanks her hand away, straightening her posture as we start to inch forward.
“This is what I get for not going to the build parties.”
I grunt. “So you got volunteered too?”
“Lesson learned. Don’t say you want to help with the float, then get sent out of town on assignment for all of November.
” She’s grumbling, but she’s saying it with a grin and a wave as we slowly roll past the first batch of parade-goers lining both sides of Main Street.
Our float’s piping out old-timey Christmas music from a fake Victrola that warbles and warps the sound around us, giving everything a slightly surreal feel.
“I bet we were the only two not at the meeting when they voted on who’d ride up top.” I don’t bother to smile as I wave. Victorian Husband isn’t having a good day.
Everyone in the crowd is bundled into hats and scarves that show mostly pink noses and red cheeks and the glint of eyes between the swaddling. But they’re all excited and waving, which makes Victorian Wife flap her arm even harder. She uses her other arm to jam an elbow into my ribs.
“Stop looking so scary, you weirdo,” CJ says through gritted teeth.
I clutch my side with a grunt, then fake a grin and resume waving.
Before long, though, the excitement of the kids along the route washes away my shitty mood, and my waving becomes a little more natural.
The volunteers handing out candy are popular with the kids, and I can’t help but notice that they all remembered their gloves, which means I’m the only one whose fingers are slowly turning into icicles.
CJ and I ride in silence for ten interminable minutes before I’m in too much pain to ignore it anymore.
Trying to keep the motion casual, I cup my hands and blow into them.
It provides a tiny bit of warmth, but it’s not enough, and it doesn’t last. And oh my god, we’ve only gone a quarter of a mile with who knows how much more to go.
I rub my hands together like I’m trying to build a fire in the wilderness, then go back to the smile-and-wave routine, just a little more stiffly than before.
My oh-so-loving wife clucks her tongue. “Did you not bring any mittens with you?”
“They’re in my other frock coat,” I say sulkily, rubbing the blocks of ice at the end of my arms together. Friction produces heat, right?
“Hopefully you won’t lose all of your fingers to frostbite.” She picks up my right hand with her mittened ones. “Maybe only the weakest. Pinkie. Ring finger. But thumb and pointer look strong.”
“Quit picturing it,” I snatch my hand away.
“I won’t, and you can’t make me.” Her voice is cheerful, and I’m annoyed all over again that the nicest she’s sounded since that night we met is over the thought of me losing digits.
I clench my hands into fists, then release them, trying to keep the blood flowing. “If I have to have any fingers amputated, guess which one I’m saving to mail to you.”
She snorts, again sounding genuinely amused. But she stiffens right afterward, her whole demeanor changing. “Wow,” she says. “So that’s still happening.”
I follow CJ’s gaze to a cluster of people on the sidewalk in front of a local accountant’s office, and there’s Reese standing off to the side, ramrod straight and dressed in her black coat with a gray scarf wrapped around her neck.
“Our third anniversary’s just around the corner,” I say. “Despite your best efforts.”
Reese and I got through the rocky patch after CJ threw grenades into the middle of our relationship last year, and we came out the other side even stronger.
If anything, I should be thanking her for the juvenile outburst that prompted many discussions about the best vacations for busy professionals.
Aaaand like clockwork, CJ gives another juvenile outburst.
“Wow. What a picture of a loving and supportive girlfriend.”
Fuck. She’s not wrong. The expression on Reese’s face says that she’s not here to joyfully support her boyfriend but only agreed to come under duress. Worse, she’s standing noticeably apart from the rowdy group she came with.
Said group gets even rowdier when they spot me, squealing and jumping up and down.
“Fans of yours?” CJ asks. Normally, I’d ignore her, but all that little-kid enthusiasm tugs a smile out of me.
“That would be my family.”
“Geez, you and Reese have been busy.”
I heave a long-suffering sigh. “My brothers and sisters. That’s my mom and my stepdad with them.”
“Oh, right.” she says quietly. “The youngest are Kai, Tristan, and… Sophia, was it?”
I blink. “How the hell did you come up with that?”
“I remember everything you’ve ever told me.” Her ferocious smile squashes my shock. “All the better to hate you with, my dear.”
Then she’s hollering and waving at my siblings. “Merry Christmas, Tristan! Merry Christmas, Kai!”
The two boys jump up and down in excitement at hearing their names being yelled by someone in a costume on a float.
“And happy New Year to you, Sophia!” she yells next.