Page 57 of My Favorite Holidate

But Brady’s not good with subtext. He rubs his palms together. “Let’s do it then! A little impromptuwho 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 rightback 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’llprove 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 forgotwhyI’m faking it with my boss.

Now it’s all coming back to me.

I’m faking it because this asshat thinks it’s okay to treat women like crap. I flash back to Wilder’s words in his office the day we decided to do this.

You deserve to be treated with respect. With adoration. With real affection.

Then to Bibi’s that same day.

I hope you beat that Brady character in the competition.

Cheating exes who think women are disposable don’t get to win a damn thing. I lift my chin, fueled by Christmas revenge. “We’ll be ready, and we’ll win,” I blurt out.

Wilder reads me like that. He loops an arm around my shoulder, squeezing me. “We will. And just to make it a little more fun, whoever wins, whether it’s someone from town, or from the wedding party—I’ll donate ten thousand dollars to the winner’s charity of choice.”

I jerk my gaze to him, a smile forming fast on my lips. I’m impressed. That was even hotter—the throwdown and the gesture.

Brady wolf whistles. “Damn, the boss man does not fuck around.”

I clasp my fingers through Wilder’s, like an adoring girlfriend. “No, he does not.”

Round one goes to the best man and the maid of honor. Take that, Brady.

19

MY LITTLE SIDEKICK