Chapter 14
Fourteen
July, Last Year
CJ
“So it’s a Christmas curse?”
I take a long pull of my peppermint pina colada before answering the pretty man across from me. “Yes. It’s the reason you had to sweep me up in your big, strong arms and whisk me away to be bandaged up.”
I bat my lashes up at Omar, who winks and smooths his hair back from his forehead. “You gave me the biggest hero moment I’ve had since I got my certification.”
“Big, big hero,” I assure him. “And because of that, I’ll let you buy the next round.”
He laughs and heads to the bar. I watch him go and wish we’d had enough chemistry to get us through more than a couple of dates. At least he made the transition into the friend group, which tonight includes Em and Rachel for the Midnight Moose’s Christmas in July party.
Did I mean to blurt out my tortured holiday history with Wyatt? No, I did not. I’ve never told a soul about what started our war, but I groaned a little too loudly when he walked in just now with a pack of guys, and as a result, I’m stuck trying to explain myself with as few details as possible.
“So you angered some sort of Yuletide deity who keeps throwing you together once a year?” Rachel asks.
“That’s the working theory. I thought maybe July would throw it off our scent, but red and green decorations must be enough to trigger it.” I playfully glare down at the Christmas-colored Mardi Gras beads the bouncers are handing out at the door.
“I saw it in action a couple of years ago,” Em says. “She’s not kidding. It’s the weirdest kind of angry heat. I thought they were going to strangle each other, then make out in front of God, Santa, and everybody.”
I flick her arm. “It’s nothing like that!”
“It’s exactly like that,” she theatrically whispers.
“Oh, are we talking about the man who almost decked me for daring to touch his woman’s ankle?” Omar slides into our booth and hands out the next round.
“I’m not his—” I break off with a strangled scream. “I hate you guys.”
“If you’re not his woman, then why is he staring over here?” Omar asks.
I whip my head around, and my so-called friends snicker.
“Kidding,” he says. “But you proved Em’s point. There’s weird energy between you two.”
I slump lower. “You’re all wrong, but whatever.”
What’s making all of this worse is that we’re back at the same bar where Wyatt and I blew up our almost-was relationship. It looks exactly as it did almost six years ago, including the tired garland and strands of twinkle lights that are even less twinkly from the passage of time.
“The thing is,” I say after a sip of my drink for courage, “I’ve kind of been wanting to talk to him. For work reasons, not personal ones.”
Okay, it’s a personal-ish work reason, but I’m not about to tell the table that.
“Can’t you just call his office or text him like a normal person?” Rachel asks.
I blink at her. “We don’t do that. Call me old-fashioned, but when my only interaction with a man is at Christmas events that end in a screaming match and one of us injured, frozen, crying, or all three, I prefer to honor that tradition even in the summer months.”
Rachel dips her head in acknowledgment. “Okay, then. I’m not here to criticize how you choose to celebrate your holiday.”
‘Thank you.”
“Even if it is utterly insane.”
“All right, I’m going in. Wish me luck.” I drain the rest of my drink and stand, my knees only wobbling slightly. “This shouldn’t take long.”
Their chorus of “good luck!” carries me to Wyatt’s table while I mutter to myself, “You can do this. In and out. No reason to fight.”
Wyatt’s head snaps up as I approach, eyes narrowing, and I’m glad I wore a cute green sundress and even cuter red sandals with a thick wedge heel. I feel way more put together than I did in the sweaty running clothes from last time.
“Wyatt,” I say.
“Succubus,” he replies. “We’re stuck with each other in July now too, I see.”
“Appears so.” I don’t even glance at the other guys around the table, not wanting to find out if there’s confusion or, god forbid, recognition on their faces. What if he told them about me? Worse, what if he didn’t? “Do you have five minutes? I’ve got a question for you.”
His brows lift. “Is it going to cause a fight?”
“Given our history?” I sigh. “Probably. Come on.”
I turn and walk toward the restrooms at the back of the bar, not waiting to hear how he explains this to his friends or even to make sure he’s following me.
He will or he won’t, and I’m not going to beg.
But miracle of miracles, I hear his heavy footsteps behind me as I lead us as far from the noise of the bar as possible.
The hallway with the restrooms is small and dark, but Wyatt keeps walking until he reaches a door marked ALLEY ACCESS and pushes it open.
“After you.” When I hesitate, he adds, “Please. I’ve got something to tell you, too.”
Call me the cat because my curiosity drives me out the door at double speed, even if it’ll probably kill me in the end. We step outside and lean against the buildings that flank the narrow alley.
“How much privacy do we need for this, Jones?”
“Depends.” He folds his arms over his chest, looking relaxed and slightly amused. “How aggravating is whatever you’re going to ask me?”
“Minimal, I hope.” After a beat, I extend a tiny olive branch. “Be honest, did you also come tonight thinking we both might be here?”
His look says obviously. His mouth says, “It’s not like I could call you.” Neither of us says what we both know: He could’ve called me, just like I could’ve called him. But that’s never been part of our rules of engagement.
As much as I want to know what’s on his mind, I want answers to my questions first, so I jump into the silence. “I have a benefits administration question I wanted to ask you about.”
He straightens, his eyes growing wary. “Okay.”
“So.” I press harder against the sun-warmed bricks at my back.
“I have a Minnesota client I’m doing an audit for, and they mentioned wanting to improve the benefits they offer their employees.
When they asked what to look for in a new administrator, I obviously thought of Sounder, but I wasn’t sure how fund selections work for you guys these days. ”
Please buy this story and answer without fighting me on it.
His face reveals nothing when he says, ”Retirement Products isn’t my division.”
I laugh drily. “Believe me, I know. I’m just asking in general. Six years ago, the senior RP team made recommendations, but Howard had final say. Is that still the case?”
Was that casual enough? Hopefully so. Wyatt doesn’t look defensive or alarmed, just slightly annoyed.
“Yeah, that’s still Howard.” He flattens his lips, then says, “Reese has actually complained that he overrules the senior staff to make his own selections pretty often.”
“Yep, that sounds like my favorite CEO,” I say, my mind is racing.
It’s what I was hoping to confirm. If Howard’s the one ultimately steering client companies toward investment funds that provide Sounder with kickbacks, it means Howard could very well be the only person hiding all that money and stealing from people’s retirement accounts.
If I find enough evidence to submit an SEC complaint, it’ll probably implicate Howard and nobody else.
Wyatt’s watching me curiously, and I pivot to get the conversation back on track. “How about those rumors that he wants to take the company public? Confirm or deny?”
He pauses for a beat, then says, “That’s the rumor. We’ll see where we are with that in a year or so. Howard always talks a big game, but his follow-through’s as shaky as his golf game.”
I wrinkle my nose, so relieved at our friendly conversation—so far, anyway—that I risk a tiny joke. “Let’s pretend you didn’t just make a sports reference in my presence.”
“Right.” His smile’s faint, but it’s there. “You hate that as much as you hate the word ointment.”
The air leaves my lungs. “You remembered?”
“I remember everything about you.” His voice is as steady as his gaze.
“The better to hate me with?”
I offer him the out, but he doesn’t take it. Instead, he just looks at me, and I take the opportunity to do the same.
I don’t like what I see.
He looks—shit. He looks bad. His skin is sallow, and he’s thinner than I’ve ever seen him.
Unlike last December’s Wyatt, I’m not sure this guy could carry me to the end of a race.
Lines bracket his mouth, and he’s got bruise-dark circles under his eyes.
This is not the man I’ve sparred with for the past half a decade, and as far as I can tell, it happened fast.
“Wy, is everything okay with you?”
It’s the wrong thing to say. He stiffens, and his face, which moments before had been warm and open, turns to stone.
“I’m fine,” he says shortly.
“It’s just that—” I cast around for something to change the subject, hoping to avoid a fight, if only this once. I end up gesturing at his thighs. “These are the ugliest things I’ve ever seen.”
He chuckles, pivoting away from his dark mood and surprising the hell out of me by striking a pose to show off the baggy red-and-white-striped shorts.
“Yeah, my buddy Gabe’s brother-in-law insisted that I wear them. Says they’re full-festival Bermudas. I don’t know what that means, but it was important to him that I have them on my body for Christmas in July. So here I am.”
“Here you are.” My eyes flick to his legs and back to his face. “I had no idea you had kneecaps.”
He glances down as if to double-check that they’re still there, then slides his eyes over to me. “Not true. You saw them after you gave me your robe.”
My robe. The polar bear plunge. One of my worst temper tantrums ever.
“I didn’t actually look at them that day,” I say quickly.
“Sure,” he says with a lazy grin. “Just like I didn’t have my hands all over your kneecaps once upon a time.”