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

“It’s a good thing he didn’t kiss you,” I whispered to myself as I climbed the dark, narrow staircase to my attic purgatory. I’d left Snowball with the Irish setters. After guarding the table from the cats all evening, she was ever so slightly tired.

I was already on thin ice with my family. Making out with the most hated man in Maplewood Falls in front of my grandmother wasn’t a good look.

“Good thing I’m not attracted to him,” I reminded myself as I turned on the lamp in the attic.

I mean, I wasn’t, right? Especially because Anderson was just acting. When he had his hand up my shirt, it wasn’t because he was attracted to me. When it seemed like he was about to kiss me, he wasn’t.

Because he hated me.

As he’d said repeatedly.

But I bet it would be good, right?

As I pulled my sweater over my head, I tried not to think about how it would feel to have him run those tattooed hands over me—surely, methodically.

I slid off my skirt. The bra followed.

My hands circled my breasts. I was glad to be out of the underwire that dug in my rib cage.

Instead of grabbing my nightgown, I slipped under the covers, aware I was about to cross some line.

“We’re just staying warm,” I lied to myself, trying not to gasp as the sheets scraped over my pebble-hard nipples, making me wonder if that was what his teeth would feel like there.

I stroked myself through my soaking-wet panties, not ready to slip my fingers under the lacy band to touch my clit, to fully accept that I was in fact attracted to Anderson and, even worse, that I wanted to know what it would be like to have those tattooed fingers stroke my clit while he sucked on my tits, those silver-gray eyes never leaving mine.

I let out a whimper, and my hips surged against my hand.

I imagined it was his hand there.

I summoned up the memory of him next to me in the garage, his voice rough and hot against my neck as he told me how he’d bend me over and how he’d take me.

That word—he’d take my pussy with his cock.

I gave in.

My fingers were hesitant as they slipped under the fabric.

Closing my eyes, I imagined Anderson watching me stroke myself. How he’d talk dirty to me, tell me to come for him, tell me how he wanted to fuck my pussy raw, spill his cum all over my tits.

My fingers had just barely brushed the hot wet slit when the floorboards creaked. Was it Anderson? Did he come for me?

“Don’t be shy,” Braeden said from the doorway. “You can’t pretend like you were doing something wholesome.”

My eyes flew open. Strangling a scream, I pulled the cover up to my chin.

Braeden closed the door behind him. “Remember how you used to do that for me? Put on a little show on FaceTime when I was traveling?”

I didn’t have to pretend to be prey. I felt so vulnerable, so helpless.

“Don’t you want to keep going?” my ex mocked.

I wordlessly shook my head.

The vibrator microphone was in my purse across the room, along with my phone.

I wished suddenly, desperately, that Anderson was there.

“You were thinking about him, weren’t you? That fucking white-trash piece of shit. You’re a stain on your family’s good name. I was always going to be the best you were going to do.” He took two steps to the bed.

“I miss your tits, you know. None of the women in your family have tits like yours. Probably because you’re not really part of the family.” He reached for the covers.

“Go away.”

Swearing at me, Braeden grabbed a fistful of the covers. I held on tight as he tried to yank them down.

“You know you want to show me.”

I finally managed to swallow enough to force out, “You had your chance with me. We’re done.”

He released the quilt but not before brushing his hand down the fabric.

I shuddered.

Braeden was revolting. How had I ever thought I was in love with him?

A slow smile spread across his face. “I knew you still wanted me.”

I lay there frozen after Braeden left, worried he was going to come back. Finally, I talked myself into scurrying out of bed so I could collect my phone, nightgown, and the little microphone.

I held it clenched in my hand like a talisman, waiting for Braeden to come back.

I was so stupid. I should have kept it on me.

I wanted to call Anderson, wanted to hear his voice, wanted to tell him… well, what exactly? That I was having extremely inappropriate thoughts about him and was caught fluffing my pillow?

He would just berate me and tell me I should have had better situational awareness.

But he’d still come, right? He’d helped me with the cookie party and gone shopping. Some little part of him cared about me. There was a human under all that evil.

My finger hovered over his name in my phone, then I turned it over.

Anderson didn’t care about me.

No way, no how.

I finally gave up on sleep at five, killing my alarm as I tiptoed down to prep for the parade. In the spirit of Brooke Taylor, I was embracing my curly hair. After my shower, I wrapped a T-shirt around my conditioner-soaked hair to let my curls set a la the Curly Girl method.

Today was the day of the Christmas parade, one of my favorite holiday events in Maplewood Falls. I couldn’t wait to see all the floats, the marching bands, and the dancers. There would even be horse-drawn carriages.

I hummed along to the Christmas carols playing softly from the radio, mixing the orange-colored dough for the spicy cheese straws and sipping a peppermint hot chocolate latte.

If I forgot about my impending eviction and Braeden’s newly kindled creepy obsession and the microphone that I wasn’t sure how to work and Anderson and his tattoos, I could almost pretend that this was just another cozy holiday morning.

“You’re making those sandwiches with store-bought rolls?” my mother remarked judgmentally, coming into the kitchen when the sky was just starting to lighten.

“I always use Hawaiian rolls on the Christmas cracker sandwiches,” I argued. “I am using homemade pickles, though.”

“This is Henry’s big day.”

I sighed, took out the flour, and started measuring.

“You’re not using Hawaiian rolls, Evie?” Henry asked, walking into the kitchen in jogging pants and taking out his ear buds as he saw me measuring flour.

My oldest brother poured himself a cup of coffee.

“Of course she is,” my mother assured him. “Evie, make sure those cheese straws aren’t burning.”

Mom checked the oven while I put the flour back in the pantry.

Henry grabbed a hot cheese straw and wandered into the living room, where my father was already set up with his coffee and the newspaper.

Using a long serrated knife, I sawed through the Hawaiian rolls, swiped spicy horseradish spread over the bottom half, and laid them out over the kitchen island. I was layering the Swiss cheese, thick-cut ham, and pickles on the sliders when happy voices from the foyer announced the arrival of family.

“These are for the parade,” I warned my cousins as they piled into the kitchen.

Sean tried to steal a sandwich, and I hit him with a spoon.

“Ow! You should have made breakfast.”

“There’s breakfast casserole in the oven.”

“I knew Evie wouldn’t let us starve!” His brother put him in a friendly headlock and ruffled my hair.

“You’ll make a good wife one day, Evie,” Aunt Heather told me as I pulled the bubbling casserole out of the oven.

“That’s about all she’ll be good for unless she goes back to college,” Uncle David said pointedly to my tween cousins. “This is why I keep telling you girls to do well in school.”

“Someone has to make the sandwiches,” my aunt scolded her husband. “School isn’t everything.” She beamed at me then followed me as I carted the casserole out to the buffet in the dining room.

“Not worth it!” Granny Doyle was raging at inexplicably inebriated family members in the dining room. “Even if your husband is nothing but a blobfish, the Christmas parade won’t let you strap his cheating corpse to a pickup, Marc-Antony-returns-to-Rome style.”

“Now, Evie.” My aunt was still following close behind. “You remember Preston, don’t you?”

I almost dropped the casserole, burning my hand as I slid it onto the hot pad. My cousins didn’t even wait for me to move before they dug in.

“Oh, Preston!” my mom exclaimed. “Henry, you used to be friends with him. He was always over here when you were in high school. You remember?”

“His wife left him.” My brother poured orange juice for the younger kids.

“Exactly.” Aunt Heather beamed. “And I told him all about Evie and how she’s well-meaning but boy crazy and just needs a good man to help steady the ship.”

“Because that’s a wonderful message to send to all the young girls present,” I said.

“Nothing wrong with being a wife. Especially if you don’t have any other skills. Now, Preston’s meeting us at the parade with his four children—”

“No wonder his wife left,” Granny Doyle quipped, tipping vodka into her glass of orange juice.

“Some of us appreciate the fine art of homemaking,” Grandma Shirley declared, looking down distastefully at the plates. She flicked an invisible speck of dirt off one.

“Evie would be an excellent stepmother—”

“Aren’t his boys, like, older?” Henry asked with a frown.

“They got married young.” Aunt Heather smiled wanly. There was lipstick on her oversize veneers.

“The last time I hung out with him, his kids were a holy terror.” Henry took a plate.

“Just be forewarned, he’s not as good-looking as Anderson,” Uncle David added.

“Really selling it there, Aunt Heather,” Sawyer stated dryly.

“Again, I’d be out the door.” Granny Doyle took a swig of vodka then shoved the bottle down her nightgown.

“Can you please dress for breakfast?” Grandma Shirley was incensed.

“You can’t think I’m going to marry Preston,” I protested.

“Don’t be rude. He has a job, a house…”

“I think he’s mortgaged up to his eyeballs on it,” Henry interjected. “Not sure that—”

“Henry,” my mom snapped at him, using the tone that she usually reserved for me.

My oldest brother clamped his mouth shut and turned to his food.

“Now, Evie, I know you think that you’re in love with Anderson, but rest assured, your feelings are not reciprocated. Men like Anderson do not stick around,” my mother lectured me.

“I don’t think she’s with him for the happily ever after.” Granny Doyle made a vulgar gesture, which set off Grandma Shirley.

“You should try to get to know Preston,” my mom urged me over the angry shouts of my grandmothers.

Get to know Preston? I didn’t need to. I already knew him far too well.

I’d lost my freakin’ virginity to him.