Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
That mystery solved, I return to the party and box up the memory of his lips as I refill the pitcher of Christmas mojito mix.
Doesn’t take long for my friends to join me.
“Just friendly?” Josie asks with a smirk.
“I mean, that was such a just friendly kiss,” Maeve seconds while Everly grins.
I blush and say nothing, because they’re right.
“We should have a costume contest!”
This brilliance is brought to us by Brady a little later as we finish a round of What Would the Groom Say. He’s seated next to the bride and groom, on the couch across from Wilder and me.
I shake my head at Brady. “I don’t think so.”
He pouts. “C’mon. What’s a Christmas movie costume party without a little contest?”
“A Christmas movie costume party,” I say dryly, trying to hide my annoyance. He didn’t plan this shower. I did. But I don’t want to let on he’s a pebble in my shoe because then he’ll really think he hurt me. His you moved on quickly comment aside, he seems to believe the mere sight of him with Iris would destroy me. I can’t let him think that, but anger would definitely tip him off. I take a quiet, calming breath, then say as sweetly as I can, “Also, it’s not a costume party. It’s a wedding shower.”
He snort-huffs. “Yeah, but we all went to the effort to dress up. Per the host and hostess rules,” he says, pointing to Wilder then to me, like he’s uncovered the culprits. Wilder’s body is tight. He’s the picture of coiled restraint as Brady keeps talking. “And everything’s more fun when there’s a competition, right? Isn’t that why we’re having the Christmas competition before your wedding next week?” Brady whips his gaze to Leo, seeming to seek approval from the cooler, older cousin.
Leo shoots him a placating—I think—smile. “Well, sure. Somewhat. Charlotte and I do love games,” he says, and there’s a bit of save me in his voice. He’s the peacemaker in the bunch, that’s clear.
“And we love Christmas, so it made sense to make it an event,” Charlotte adds, and the subtext in her words is crystal clear—that doesn’t mean we want this casual wedding shower to be a costume contest, you jackass.
Though, I might have just added the you jackass in my head.
But Brady’s not good with subtext. He rubs his palms together. “Let’s do it then! A little impromptu who wore it best?” Puffing out his chest, he bleats out like the emcee of a boxing match, “Will it be the studly Alan Rickman in this corner, or every single man who dressed like John McClane in all the other corners?”
Jesus. He’s already declaring himself the winner of the Christmas movie costume contest. He’s also a sexist pig. “Or a woman could win,” Everly says, reading my mind.
“Yes, exactly,” I say, not so sweetly.
“So, you’re in, Fabes? I knew it. I knew you’d get right back into the swing of fun and games,” Brady says, and I want to smack him.
Because he’s saying the same thing he said before—you moved on quickly, even though he also thinks I’m crying in my salted caramel ice cream over all I’ve theoretically lost.
It’s like he’s trying to goad me into admitting I’m stuck on him.
I grit my teeth, hunting for an appropriate comeback to say in front of friends and family, when Wilder cuts in. His voice isn’t the loudest in the room. He doesn’t need to speak with volume, since he speaks with authority as he says, “No. There won’t be a costume contest today because sometimes it’s fun to just show up in costume. It doesn’t have to be a sport.” He pauses, and the only sound is Frank Sinatra crooning that he’ll be home for Christmas. Then, once his words have sunk in, he adds, “Why don’t we open gifts?”
It’s said decisively. A man who’s moving the agenda along without needing to pet any ruffled feathers.
“If you say so,” Brady says under his breath.
Wilder turns to him, his eyes hard. “Yes. I do.”
Cold, clear, crisp.
And I’m a little turned on at the way Wilder’s putting Brady in his place.
Brady shrugs, then adjusts his cheater’s glasses. “All right, boss man. Your house, your rules. But know this—the gloves will be off at Christmastime.” He smiles at Leo. “Am I right or am I right?”
Leo laughs, possibly still placating him. “Sure. I know you’ll play to win, Brady. You were always competitive.”
Brady turns his attention to Wilder. “And that’s a good thing. I’m going to win the competition and that’ll prove to you that I’m the right man to manage your money.”
“Is that so?” Wilder asks, sounding amused.
But I burn hotter, this time with irritation, frustration, and, fine, I’ll admit it—hurt. This jerk hurt me at Thanksgiving. And for a while here earlier today, when Wilder kissed me under the mistletoe, I nearly forgot why I’m faking it with my boss.