My Wicked Winter War excerpt

Chapter 1

CJ

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

“Occupied!” I call, trying to sound breezy instead of panicked over becoming the human equivalent of a deer with its antlers caught in a bush.

I hold my breath at the silence that follows, praying that the intruder chose to vacate my hellish holly-jolly hidey-hole.

Then a voice I know all too well sends goosebumps rippling over my skin.

“'Occupied’ is not the word I’d use for whatever’s happening right now,” the voice says lazily. “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, hideously aware that he’s soaking in every ridiculous detail of my current circumstances. “… as a past-her-prime elf desperately clinging to her youth in a skirt that’s too short for Santa's workshop. Did I get it right?”

The goosebumps disappear in a wave of fury, which is actually comforting. Angry, I can work with. It’s my normal state around Wyatt Jones, after all.

“Does it look like I need your sad little attempts at humor right now?” I snap, ignoring the prickle of hurt at his description of my outfit. “Either help 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 just before a pair of hands land on my waist.

”What are you doing?” I jump away with a yelp, wishing like hell I could cover the top of my breasts where they’re nestled into the strapless bra I’m supposed to be wearing with my party dress tonight.

Wyatt’s sigh is the third person in the room with us. ”I’m doing what you asked me to do, you lunatic.”

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

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 janitor’s closet. This is my villain lair, not his.

Wyatt snorts, somehow managing to convey both irritation and the depth of his suffering in that overly dramatic sound. “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 at the end of the night.”

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

Another impatient huff 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. “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, desperate 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.

“Relax, Charlotte Jane.” His low chuckle sets my teeth on edge. “There are inflatable tube men waving their arms outside of 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.

“Gotcha.” He purrs the word 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 undoubtedly hopelessly tousled hair out of my eyes. “Irritating as ever.”

His finger traces the line of exposed skin along my right 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 this time I succeed in slapping his fingers away.

“Paws off,” I say sharply.

He lifts his hands like I burned them and retreats to the opposite side of the closet, 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 mutter, refusing to meet his gaze as I tug the sweater over the top of my red-and-green striped elf skirt, which, I hate to admit, is in fact too short for me.

“The day you thank me for anything is the day the janitorial staff finds my pale, puffy body in this closet, dead from shock.”

“Don't threaten me with a good time.“ I wave my hands over my sweaty face. If you’re about to slather your face in makeup, I don’t recommend doing it after wrestling with a bulky sweater in an airless closet under the watchful gaze of your worst enemy.

I may be overheated, 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.

I roll my eyes, then bend to rummage through my bag of tricks 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 ask again as I turn to the cloudy mirror stuck to the wall of the closet, swiping 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 over my shoulder in the mirror as I do. He’s leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, scowling, and that's when I realized he's in a tux. A really nice 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 tear my gaze away and reach for my makeup kit. “I asked you first,” I say as I start aggressively applying blush to my already flushed cheeks.

“I asked you last.”

I give a strangled scream. “God, will you please just leave?”

He pushes himself off the wall like he’s finally listening to reason, then drops back against it with a smirk. “Nah.”

“Real mature.” But this is fine. I’ve got years of practice in ignoring Wyatt.

Pretending I can’t feel the prickle of his gaze between my shoulder blades, I rush through my over-the-top makeup job. I scoped this janitor’s closet out as a possible staging location a couple of weeks ago when I was finalizing my plans to take down my nemesis. Well, my other nemesis. The non-Wyatt one.

My hasty makeup done, I scrape my long, dark hair into a tight bun and plop a chin-length platinum blond wig on top of it, horribly aware of the man shifting his weight from foot to foot as I straighten it until it covers every last natural 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 stage of my plan.

I huff out a breath and spin to face the man behind me.

“How do I look?” I ask brightly.

“Jesus Chr—” He blinks, his startled expression quickly dissolving into a smug boredom once again. “Sorry, did you do something different that I’m supposed to be noticing?”

“Wow, beauty advice from the man who’s been trying to grow a big-boy beard the whole time I’ve known him.” I saunter over to where he’s slouching against the wall 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 it away from his face. “You’re so desperate to catch a man that you’re going full bimbo elf?”

Desperate. The taunt rings in my ears as I yank my arm free and strut a few steps away from him.

“Mmm, so bimbo elf works for you?” I pop my hip and twitch my skirt up even higher. “If so, I’ll go change into literally anything else immediately.”

His eyes dart to my legs and then away as he scoffs, as if the idea of him being attracted to me is laughable. The unwanted dart of pain this causes propels me forward, and as I close the distance between us, Wyatt straightens like he’s scared I’m going to launch myself at him and force him to admit there actually was a time that he found me attractive.

Please. Like I’d waste this gaudy lipstick on his unworthy mouth.

I come to a stop a safe distance away and paint a grin I do not feel onto my face.

“Just to confirm, you wouldn’t recognize me, right?” I plant my feet and force myself to hold still while Wyatt’s eyes travel from my red high heels up to my bare legs, lingering on the faux-fur trim of the skirt where it rests against my ample thighs. That same white fur circles the neckline of the sweater, which is high enough to cover all my good bits, although it’s so tight that there’s not much mystery about what you’d find under there if you unwrapped me. Just my luck that the cater-waiter who loaned me her uniform is smaller than I am in every single way. 

Wyatt’s jaw tenses, but his shrug is unconcerned. “You’re asking the wrong guy. I’ve spent the past seven years trying hard to not recognize you.”

My vision turns red at his words. It’s the red of my heels, the red of my lipstick, the red of my hatred.  That same furious haze consumes me every time I see or hear or think about the man standing in front of me, and I want to paint him with that same shade.

“Fuck off, Wyatt.” I’m horrified to hear the tremor in my voice, but I keep my spine straight and my chin high. “I asked you a simple question. Or was that too hard for your tiny brain to comprehend?”

Something flickers in his expression, then it flattens as he cocks his head and drags his eyes over my body one more time.

“You’re fine. Even knowing it's you, I’m having a hard time convincing myself it's you.” He crosses his arms over his chest, his gaze turning sharp. “Now do you mind telling me what the fuck you're doing dressed like an evil elf?”

His grudging curiosity is like mother’s milk to me because it means I’ve got the upper hand again. “You really want to know?” I ask, all big-eyed and innocent.

“I really do,” he says with exaggerated patience, “because I cannot fathom what led the second-worst person I know to give herself a clown makeover in a janitor’s closet.”

“The second-worst?” I pout. ”Wyatt, I’m insulted. I thought I was your least favorite person in the whole world.”

“Dammit, CJ.” He drops his pretend patience, and that irritated growl makes me smile for real for the first time since he burst into my hiding spot. Until he opens his mouth again, that is. “Just tell me if you’re planning something that’ll fuck up my life again.”

And there it is. Unfounded accusation with a side of narcissism. The Wyatt Jones special. He’s as wrong as ever, and I wish like hell that I was dressed like a sane, professional adult for this conversation instead of like Cindy Lou the Whoville Hussy. But whatever. Wyatt’s thought the worst of me for years. No reason for this encounter to be any different.

The thought has me forcing a sweet smile back onto my elf-red lips. “Not everything is about you, you egomaniacal man-baby.”

His glare intensifies, and my grin widens even more. “Okay, if you really want to know…” I lower my voice to a whisper.

Unwilling interest crosses his face, and I beckon him forward, satisfaction rushing through me when he pushes himself off the wall and steps toward me.

“Can you keep a secret?” I ask breathily, running my tongue along my lower lip and looking up at him through my clumpy lashes. As I hoped, my “about to confess everything” demeanor lures him even closer, so close that I can smell that woodsy, citrusy scent that always clings to his skin.

“Spill it,” he demands, his hard, dark eyes locked on mine. “Whose life are you trying to ruin now?”

I have to clench my fists to keep from slapping him, but losing my cool would mean that he wins, and I refuse. Plus he’s technically correct about what I’m up to. So instead of gouging out his eyes with my fingernails, I step even closer to him and rest my hands on his chest. He thinks I’m a life-ruining bitch? Then that’s what I’ll keep giving him.

“You’d just love for me to tell you everything, wouldn’t you?” I murmur, pushing up onto my tiptoes so my cheek grazes the hair curling against the side of his neck. It puts me at risk of overdosing on the crisp outdoorsy scent of him, especially when I feel his chest muscles tense and lift as he sucks in a breath.

“I know better than anyone how evil your plans can be.” His voice is soft, but bitterness coats his words, so I slide my fingers under his jacket and dig my nails into chest through his shirt. His answering hiss of pain is the sweetest music I’ve ever heard.

“You do know better than anyone,” I murmur, playing the role he’s forced me into every time we meet. “And that’s why I will never”—my lips brush his ear—“ever“—my tongue darts out for a quick stroke—"trust you enough to tell you a goddamn thing.”

With that, I catch his earlobe between my teeth and bite, laughing when he grunts and pushes me away. Pursing my lips, I press a kiss to the tips of my fingers and slide them across his lips, brushing my hands together afterward like I’m dusting off every trace of our encounter.

“Notice how I’m not demanding answers from you about why you’re in this closet,” I say as I head for the door. “And that’s because I don’t care what you do or why you do it or who you do it with just as long as you stay out of my way, Wyatt.”

With that, I push open the door, leaving behind the man I definitely never think about. Once the door is safely shut behind me, I drop my bravado and sag against the wall, focusing on my breathing until my heart stops thundering under my skintight sweater and I can pretend I don’t still feel Wyatt’s fingers against my skin.

Once all systems are normal again, I tug on my wig, straighten my shoulders, and set off down toward the man whose life I am, in fact, about to ruin.

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