Elf Against the Wall: A Holiday Romantic Comedy (The Wynter Brothers Book 2)
Elf Against the Wall: Chapter 21

“They need to put a warning label on those Curly Girl Method books,” I complained as Sawyer hovered around me in the bathroom while Ian passed her different pairs of scissors when requested.

“You can’t go out in the middle of winter with wet hair.”

“I had to! It had been hours since I washed it, and it still wasn’t dry. What was I supposed to do?” I wailed.

“Use a blow dryer?”

I threw a wadded-up napkin at my brother.

“Anderson is never going to want anything to do with me.”

“I don’t know. He seemed pretty territorial at the parade.” Ian dug through Sawyer’s beauty bag. “With the way he was acting, I kind of thought you put out already.”

“Same.” Sawyer nodded.

“What? Why would you think that?” I cried.

The Murphy Misfits shrugged.

“Let’s be real. You have a track record of sleeping with terrible men as soon as you meet them.” Sawyer grimaced.

“Not immediately as soon as,” I argued.

“You’ve had a lot of first dates turn into casual hookups, Evie.” Ian made a face. “No judgment, but this is the longest you’ve been with a man and haven’t slept with him.”

“I’m not with Anderson,” I argued.

Ian nibbled his cheese straw and made a noncommittal noise.

“Anderson’s not like the others.”

“Where have I heard that before?” Sawyer ran a comb through my hair.

“I don’t mean he’s my dream man,” I protested. “Just that he hates me. He hates the Murphys. He’d never actually lower himself to—”

“Lower himself on you?” Ian completed.

“Hate fucks can be good.” Sawyer ran her fingers through my hair.

“I just want a hate fuck, baby.” Ian handed Sawyer the electric razor.

“Whoa, whoa, what are you doing with that?” I twisted on the stool.

Sawyer slapped my hands. “I’m going to have to even it up on both sides and go with your curl pattern. Hold still.”

Ian winced as more chunks of my hair fell to the newspaper on the floor.

“Is it bad?” My eyes were squeezed shut.

“You’ve got some cute little side bangs now.” His tone was forced cheer.

“Ian, Evie.” My mother stuck her head in. “Oh god, Evie, what did you do to your hair?”

“Ian said it didn’t look bad!”

“Can’t you flat iron it, Sawyer?”

“Evie’s going au natural, Aunt Mel.”

My mother pinched the bridge of her nose. “Ian and Evie, your guests are here. Come down and say hello.”

“Hashtag can’t.” Ian sighed.

“Try to be social.” My mom slammed the bathroom door.

“What other friends are you bringing over?” Sawyer sounded a little hurt.

Ian and I burst out laughing.

“You mean the triplets’ friends?” Ian scoffed.

“It’s like the world’s largest, most enmeshed friend group.”

“They wanted a little reunion since, for most of them, it’s their last year of college before they all get well-paying jobs, marry each other, and live happily ever after.” Ian pretended to puke.

“I should have spent more time trying to get in that friend group and less time sleeping with Henry’s friends,” I admitted as I helped Sawyer clean up from the impromptu hairstyling session.

“You slept with more of them besides Preston and Braeden?” Ian demanded.

“Don’t you think that was more than enough?” Sawyer asked as we headed downstairs.

The triplets’ close-knit high school friends were all giggling and happy to see each other in my parents’ living room, reminiscing about the good times in high school, which usually occurred in the advanced classes, in which yours truly did not replace herself.

“Hi, everyone.” I waved awkwardly, while Ian offered a wan smile.

“We’re having a sleepover for old times’ sake,” Alana gushed.

“And I will have fun sleepover snacks ready for you for old times’ sake.”

We all stood there for a long, silent beat. Then I gave a half wave and sidled away to the kitchen. Behind me, the laughter and cheer started up again.

“You shouldn’t just run away from them,” my father remarked as I passed him in the hallway. “You could learn something from the triplets and their friends. They all buckled down, applied themselves, and are about to enjoy the rewards of their hard work.”

“Thanks, Dad. I’ll definitely drink the creamy milk from the tit of their wisdom right after I finish setting up the chip-and-dip bar.”

He made an annoyed noise then went in to greet the guests.

You might think, Oh, poor Evie, having to cook for a party she’s not even welcome at.

Hardly.

The kitchen is my safe space. Back when my mom wasn’t on the Evie-is-ruining-Christmas bandwagon, we semi bonded over our love of elaborate dinner parties.

Sleepover snacks were the perfect excuse to be antisocial.

Humming Christmas carols, I set up the table in the downstairs rec room with sliced veggies, pita chips, and ceramic snowflake dishes piled with various dips like buffalo chicken, spinach artichoke, and of course, the cookies and frosting dip.

“Are those Chips Ahoy?” one of the triplets’ friends asked when the group all clattered down the stairs.

“Please.” Alexis snorted. “Evie wouldn’t be caught dead serving people store-bought cookies.”

“These are chocolate chip cookie sticks,” I explained, pointing at one of my hand-lettered info cards.

“I wish I had time to bake cookies all day,” another of their friends said.

“She doesn’t just bake. She also cooks.” Alissa grinned. “She made all these dips herself.”

“It’s just recipes on Pinterest.”

“Is your boyfriend coming?” The girls in the group all erupted into a fit of giggles.

“I saw the pictures.” More giggles.

“There aren’t any guys like that at Harvard.”

“There is that one professor—”

“What kind of photos is he sending you that compare to Evie’s hunk of meat?” Alissa demanded.

Harvard? Professors? All it did was remind me that I’d flunked out of college. I fled upstairs as soon as I could, mumbling excuses about needing to put the food away.

As I snapped lids on the containers, the back door opened.

“Anderson?”

“You really are obsessed with him. You think he actually cares about you? You are such a child.”

“I’m busy, Braeden.”

“Expecting that criminal?” My ex was in front of me now. “What was it? You let him come up your ass at the country club?”

I tried to follow Anderson’s instructions and be prey.

“How did you—” I fumbled in the pocket of my apron, hitting record on the microphone.

“Your mom was complaining. She’s very disappointed in you, and so am I.” Braeden leaned in to whisper into my ear, “You never let me come in your ass once. I should have known a girl like you would want a guy to do that.”

“Felicity not putting out?” I asked before I could stop myself.

But Braeden wasn’t suspicious.

Instead, there was a slimy, smug smile.

“You know,” Braeden added—his breath stank of stale beer—“it would be perfect if you married Preston. Felicity is looking at a house in his neighborhood, then maybe you could make it up to me.”

I stood stock-still in front of the fridge. This was it. I did it! I had Braeden on tape admitting not only that we had been together but also that he was actively plotting to cheat on Felicity.

“You are still obsessed with me. I bet you’re parading that ogre around just to try to get back with me.” He grabbed one of the leftover breadsticks and took a noisy bite, chewing with his mouth open. “I knew you’d get desperate.”

After he left, I hurried into the walk-in pantry, trembling with the thought of this nightmare finally being over, my name finally being cleared, my family finally loving me again. But when I hit Play on the recorder, the only thing that played was a garbled mess.

I sank down to the floor, stuffing my fist into my mouth to keep from wailing.

“I’m never going to escape this. They’re never going to believe me.” I tried to muffle the sobs. “I’m going to be trapped here forever. What am I going to do? Why can’t I do anything right? What’s wrong with me?”

“Evie? Evie.” Leather motorcycle gloves cupped my face. “What happened? Who did this? Who hurt you?” Anderson demanded, kneeling in front of me, resting his motorcycle helmet on the floor. “Tell me.” The gloves were rough on my face, wiping away the tears. “It was Preston, wasn’t it?”

I shook my head.

“It didn’t work,” I coughed out as Anderson stroked my hair, making soothing noises. “I tried to record him, and it didn’t work.”

I played the recording.

“Hmm.” He cocked his head, listening, then said, “Play it again.”

I wiped my eyes with the apron as the garbled audio played.

Anderson cupped my cheek briefly then took the device from me.

“Braeden was whispering, like really close to me,” I explained, fishing out a napkin, “and the microphone was in my pocket.”

“It should have picked up something.” Anderson slipped it into his jacket pocket. “I’m going to see if I can post process it at all. We might get lucky.”

I blew my nose. “Don’t bother. I’ve already given up. I’m just going to cook holiday dinners until I get old and wrinkly. Maybe one of my siblings will have pity on me and let me live in the shed in their backyard.”

“You don’t get to throw in the towel, Gingersnap.” He grabbed my arm, dragging me to my feet.

I must have been imagining the look of concern on his face.

Anderson did a quick check outside the pantry then waved me out.

“You done here?”

“No, I have to clean.”

He made an annoyed sound and shrugged off his jacket.

I stuffed a cookie into my mouth to give myself something to do other than stare at the tight T-shirt stretched over his rippling muscles as Anderson scrubbed the heavy pan I’d used to make the sliders this morning.

“Hurry up. We have a mission tonight,” he said in a low voice.

“A mission?” I squealed.

“Keep it down.” He forced his hand over my mouth.

“A super-secret you-know-what.”

Using my finger, I scraped out the last of the fluffy frosting in the bowl, needing a pick-me-up, and stuck my buttercream-covered fingers in my mouth. “Yum, frosting.”

Anderson’s eyes tracked the movement.

“Don’t say anything. I need sugar and carbs. There’s extra buffalo chicken dip in the fridge. I know you’re a protein guy.”

I grabbed the container of leftovers and slid it onto the countertop then sat across from him with my frosting bowl.

“This is so exciting.” I rested my elbows on the counter as Anderson used a carrot stick to swipe up some of the cheesy buffalo chicken dip.

“We’re spies like James Bond.”

“Not like James Bond,” he argued in a low voice. “We are not getting in fights. We’re not stealing anything. We’re getting in and getting out.”

“I need a disguise.”

“No disguises.”

“I am so wearing a disguise.”

“You’re going to do exactly what I say. All we’re doing is copying data off of computers then leaving.”

“We’re going to be hackers! I need a cute outfit.”

“No. No hacking.” He sighed. “I really shouldn’t take you with me.”

“I know Braeden’s house plans. I can be a good spy. Fine,” I said to his dirty look, “nonspy. Ooh, I need to make Snowball an outfit.”

Anderson reached over to comb his fingers through my short side bangs. “You’re a fucking disaster, Gingersnap. You know that? And we’re not going to Braeden’s house.”

“Wait. Why?”

That earned me a cold smile from my sworn enemy.

“Because. We’re going to Preston’s.”