Chapter 10
Ten
December, Three Years Ago
CJ
“Solo dad at eight o’clock.”
I groan. “Not another one.”
Em waggles her eyebrows at me as she maneuvers a wayward toddler back into the line to see Santa.
She dragged me along with her to help control the chaos at Santaland, and she’s spent our whole shift pointing out every possibly single man who’s here with a child clutching a wish list. As it’s the last Saturday before Christmas, that’s amounted to a lot of possibly single men.
“Ope, false alarm. A woman just joined him.” Em tsks. “Shame. He’s hot.”
“Really?” Over the past two hours, my happily married mother-of-three yoga friend hasn’t commented on the attractiveness of any of the guys she’s pointed out to me, only their singleness. “This I’ve gotta see.”
I glance over my shoulder, perform a cartoonish double take, and slowly turn back to Em as a wave of inevitability rushes over me.
“Right?” Em’s eyes travel over my shoulder. “Hot.”
“You have no idea.”
As Wyatt and Reese head toward us like misery-seeking missiles, I shoot Em a kill-me look, mutter, “I’ve gotta start requesting out-of-town assignments for the final weeks of the year,” then paste on a smile and face the enemy head-on.
“Hi there!” I say in my hap-hap-happiest voice. “Who’s ready to see Santa?”
Wyatt’s been talking to the three kids, but his head whips up immediately. It’s impossible to miss the long-suffering glance he exchanges with Reese.
“I know,” I say, spreading my arms wide in a theatrical flourish. “What are the odds?”
He scowls. “Since I clearly angered some kind of trickster demon who’s dedicated to punishing me, I’d say pretty good.”
Three pairs of eyes widen as they look up at their older brother uncertainly, and I rush to change the subject with an excited clap of my hands.
“So! Santa!” I’m dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a plain green sweatshirt, but I have a trick up my sleeve. Crouching in front of the littles, I flip my hair over my shoulders and wait.
“She’s an elf,” whispers Sophia.
It hurts my heart how much she looks like her big brother, almost as much as it wounds me to see her clinging to Reese’s hand like a lifeline. Still, I tilt my head so she can touch the pointed tips of the latex elf ears I borrowed from the cosplay nut down the street.
“Who else would be Santa’s helper?” I wink. “He’s been asking when you’d get here, Sophia.”
“He has?” she squeaks.
“He has.” I nod, all business. “He’s also been asking about Kai and Tristan.” I turn to the two boys who’ve each grown at least half a foot since I saw them along the parade route last year. “And hey! Here you are!”
Tristan pumps his fist, and Kai, who’s breathing like he’s about to faint, blurts out, “Tell him we’re getting in line right now, okay?”
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.
His frowning intensifies. “We don’t.”
“But Greg said—”
“We don’t.” His jaw hardens. “Reese got a promotion and heads up the Retirement Products Group now, so I know that for a fact..”
“Know what, baby?”
The woman herself is back now with Sophia on her hip and the two boys running circles around her like orbiting comets.
“CJ’s still trying to find ways to sink our company,” Wyatt says.
Reese turns to me with polite confusion on her face. “Really? Why would you want to do that, CJ?” She reaches out and takes Wyatt’s hand, as if I needed the reminder of their work-life partnership. “Then again, it’s not like you can get fired twice.”
I raise my eyes heavenward, but instead of finding a secret trove of patience or a vengeful god ready and willing to smite my enemies, I see a lone red balloon that escaped the display around Santa’s chair and is now bobbing against the large steel beams crisscrossing the ceiling of the Beaucoeur community center.
Oh, to be able to join that balloon and escape this conversation.
For the briefest of moments, I’m tempted to tell them the truth: I’ve been keeping an eye on Howard Randall since I got fired, and I’m starting to develop a theory about why he maneuvered me into a position to recommend cutting Wyatt’s division.
But those suspicions involve the Retirement Products Group budget, and I’m not about to kick the hornet’s nest that is Reese’s new kingdom.
There’s no reason to give them yet another opportunity to look at me like I’m the evil one.
Thankfully, there are children nearby, and they’re great subject changers.
I turn to Wyatt with a clenched-tooth smile and say under my breath, “For the sake of the k-i-d-s, I’m—”
“Tristan and Kai know how to spell.” The you dumbass is only implied.
“Fine. For the sake of the ildren-chay, I’m going to ignore the hurtful yet unsurprising attacks on my character to ask if it’s okay to point them to the booth with ot-hay ocolate-chay and, um, cookies.
” My pig latin runs out of steam by the end, and I add, “They’ve got nondairy, sugar-free, and gluten-free options for everything, if they need it. ”
I watch Wyatt shift from “I hate CJ” to “I adore my siblings” mode, and he says gruffly, “They’d love that.”
“Great,” I clip out before turning to address the three humans in the group who don’t loathe me. “Who’d like hot chocolate and cookies?”
The answer is, of course, everyone, and Sophie shocks me by leaning away from Reese and holding her chubby arms out to me.
Both Reese and I glance at Wyatt, me nervously and her in dismay, but he just makes a sharp gesture for us to get on with it.
I cautiously approach Reese for the child transfer and find myself cuddling Wyatt’s youngest sibling against my chest.
Then, like always, my need to get the last word rises in me like a self-destructive tide.
“I meant that, by the way,” I tell Wyatt. “Your division encourages employees to ask questions and hopefully avoid predatory retirement plans. It’s important work. Kind of makes me wonder why Howard wanted to cut you in the first place.”
I stare hard at Reese, then flee toward the cookies in the middle of a pack of children. Once they’re settled at one of the long tables with all the sugar they can handle, I leave them in the care of their brother and his awful girlfriend and rejoin Em at the start of the line.
“Well?” she asks. “The hot dad is taken?”
“Not a dad,” I tell her. “But very taken.”
And still very hot, the asshole.