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

“I’m a shitty girlfriend,” I told Sawyer as she applied hot wax to my upper lip. “Maybe this is why the universe hates me.”

“Shitty fake girlfriend.” Ian took a sip from his wineglass. We were pregaming for Grandma Shirley’s holiday party.

“I’m sure Anderson is chilling in the bat cave, drinking a beer and watching the hockey game,” Sawyer said. “Don’t feel bad for him.”

“I don’t even like hockey, and that sounds delightful.” Ian took another sip of wine.

I shrieked as Sawyer ripped the wax off my upper lip.

“Buckle up,” she warned me. “We haven’t even got below the neck yet.”

“I can’t take it.” I sobbed.

“You picked out that dress. Friends don’t let friends wear dresses like that without mowing the lawn down to a dirt patch.”

“I feel like all of us,” Ian said, pouring more wine, “are way too close.”

I arrived back at the Canal Club as hairless as the day I was born, stuffed into several layers of Spanx and sky-high heels. I immediately headed for the bar to grab a drink to numb the stinging pain. Not for the first time in my life, I looked at the triplets and my mom and wished that I, too, had been blessed with the hairless-body gene.

“It’s so unfair.” I downed the wine. “The actual hair on their head isn’t even thin. Santa emptied his whole haul all over them.”

My mom and her daughters were posing for photos.

My stomach churned. I poured out another glass of white wine, some sloshing over the table.

“Let’s take one with your husband and children,” the photographer said as my mom waved to my dad.

The party was getting crowded with the Murphys plus Grandma Shirley’s friends, neighbors, and anyone else who needed her success rubbed in their faces.

I stood there awkwardly, sipping my drink. Practically all of my same-aged family were coupled up.

I desperately wished Anderson was there.

Not because I wanted a boyfriend, especially not him, but I was just so sick of being alone, being the outsider. Sure, my entire family—well, most of them, anyway—hated Anderson. But it was kind of nice not to be the most despised person at a Murphy-family holiday gathering for once.

I shouldn’t have dressed up. I should have worn a pantsuit instead of this strapless cocktail dress. The saleslady said it made me look like Jessica Rabbit with the low-cut sweetheart neckline and the little flare at the calf-length skirt. In hindsight, I probably needed a little more support in the bust area.

“The light is better outside.” Aunt Trish swept by. Her dress looked like it had been patched together with cast-off rags from Santa’s workshop. “Let’s all head outside for family photos.”

Family photos. The tenth circle of holiday hell.

Scrooge-like?

Did I make the Grinch cringe?

Worse, did I sound like Anderson Wynter?

You would, too, if you were the odd ugly duckling in your beautiful swanlike family.

I made my way as slowly as possible to the French doors at the entry of the ballroom, emptying my glass of wine as I did so.

The front of the historic beaux-arts building had been decorated like a Christmas palace, its grand sweeping staircase leading down to the terrace overlooking the water.

“I’m sorry,” the photographer said as I walked out to join the rest of my fashion-model-esque family. “We’re taking family photos.”

My mother sighed. “That’s my daughter. Hurry up, Evie.”

I slunk in next to my sisters, who were stunning with their perfectly glossy red hair that sported deliberate and subtle waves.

Meanwhile, the Curly Girl Method had completely failed me, and I had used two packs of bobby pins to secure my poofy bun as close to my head as I could.

“Stand up straight.” My mother jabbed her fingernail between my shoulder blades. “Don’t you have a shawl? Girls with bigger chests shouldn’t wear strapless dresses.”

The photographer snapped a few token photos of the entire family. Then it began.

“Let’s do one of me with the grandkids.” Grandma Shirley waved as her children’s generation headed down the steps, out of the shot.

My stomach churned knowing what was coming next.

“Who has Grandpa’s photo? Come on, girls,” she motioned to the triplets. “You stand by me. Look at that beautiful red hair.”

The photographer snapped a couple of pictures. “Let’s do one with everyone making a funny face.”

Grandma Shirley was impatient. “No need. Do one with just the real grandkids.”

I dutifully held down the hem of my skirt to keep it from riding up and maneuvered down the steps to the side terrace.

“You can’t just kick Evie out of the photos,” Sawyer said.

“It’s fine,” I said softly, not wanting a repeat of the family reunion fight from the Fourth of July.

“You see? Evie doesn’t mind.” Grandma Shirley waved to the photographer.

“Dad!” Ian called to our father.

“We already talked about this, Ian. Grandma Shirley is from a different generation and stuck in her ways.”

“Evie’s not really a Murphy.” Felicity joined in with Grandma Shirley. “She doesn’t look like any of us.”

“Thank god, because who wants to be as flat chested as Shirley?” Granny Doyle yelled from the bushes.

“I’m not going to be in a photo if Evie’s not in it.” Sawyer grabbed Ian, and they started heading off to the side terrace.

“Ian, just stay there,” my father begged. “I will pay you twenty dollars.”

“I can’t be bought!” my brother declared.

“You have to pay that jaywalking ticket,” I reminded him.

“Make it a hundred.”

“Sellout!” Sawyer shouted at Ian.

“No one wants you in the photo anyway,” Felicity yelled at her. “We can see your tattoos.”

“Oh, come on. What is this? The 1950s?” Sawyer argued. “Everyone has a tattoo. It’s practically standard issue to every basic bitch at this point, and Ian, if you don’t walk out of this picture, I’m going to put a rat in your apartment.”

“I will pay both of you five hundred dollars,” my dad said.

“Wait, Uncle Brian. I want five hundred dollars to be in the photo,” Lauren complained.

“You’re ruining Grandma Shirley’s holiday party!” Felicity shrieked.

“You see what you did, Evie?” My mother was furious.

“I didn’t—”

We heard the motorcycle before we saw it.

The roar of the engine cut through the cold winter evening. Tires crunched on the gravel drive as the black bike carried a black rider. One gloved hand on the chrome handle bar, the other on his hip, he navigated the bike in front of the Canal Club staircase.

The engine cut with a purr.

“Oh my god!” My female cousins started screaming and clutching each other. “Who is that?”

The rider, face hidden behind the black motorcycle helmet, leaped gracefully off the bike. Instead of heavy gloves, he wore thin leather ones. He briefly smoothed down the front of his jet-black three-piece suit as he approached the wide stone staircase. Reaching up with one hand, he pulled the helmet off his head.

The confused murmurs morphed into gasps of surprise.

Anderson Wynter.

My family was tall, but Anderson was six-five and cut through them like a tank as he casually took the steps two at a time.

As if he couldn’t help himself, the photographer started snapping photos of Anderson as he moved up the steps like a panther.

“Santa Claus is coming to town!” my cousins hollered.

Anderson ignored them, eyes only for me. He stopped in front of me when he reached the terrace.

I cowered, stunned, in the doorway.

Anderson looked—well, he looked like he had just stepped out of my deepest, darkest fantasy.

His mouth twitched as he approached me.

His gaze clocked the exaggerated red lip, the cleavage that was propped up by duct tape and a shelf bra, and moved down the fitted skirt to the sparkly shoes and back up to settle on my mouth.

“There’s mistletoe,” I croaked. “We should probably move.”

“Move?” He took another languid step closer. “Nah.” He closed the distance. “I don’t think so.”

His gloved hand came up to grab the back of my neck, and he tipped me backward under the mistletoe over the doorway.

I shouldn’t kiss him. I had terrible taste in men, and he was the worst, but when he crushed his mouth to mine, it was like the two of us were alone, trapped in a snowstorm, and all we had was each other. I suffocated against his soft lips, let myself be carried away, swept along by a blizzard of conflicting desires.

I vaguely heard Ian shouting, “Get it, girl!” as Anderson deepened the kiss.

I clung to Anderson’s rock-hard shoulders as his tongue slipped into my mouth. The kiss was as thrilling and magical as a cold swim on an icy dawn.

Right when I thought I was going to drown in him, he slowly ended the kiss, his mouth lingering on mine, like the last melting snowflake. His silver-gray eyes, luminous under dark lashes, gazed at me like I was everything he’d ever wanted wrapped up under the tree on Christmas morning.

My heart was thump-tha-thump in my chest.

It was the first kiss I’d always dreamed of, sleigh bells chiming, perfect under the mistletoe.

Too bad it was with a man who had walked out of my family’s worst nightmare.

The world around us slowly came into focus. But I didn’t want to step out of our magical little snow globe just yet.

I ran my fingernails, cranberry red with little white snowflakes, courtesy of Sawyer, over the smooth-shaven jaw, the strong brow.

“Kissing under the mistletoe? That’s a little clichéd for a bad biker boy,” I teased.

His lips brushed mine—on the mouth, quick, then under my jaw. “You smell good,” he murmured against my neck.

He kissed me again, savoring my mouth. “And you taste even better. You done with family time?” He still had eyes only for me.

I nodded, trying not to faint.

His arm circled my waist. “Good. I need a drink.”

Inside, the 1940s brass band that Grandma Shirley had insisted on and shockingly still had elderly members alive struck up a big-band rendition of “White Christmas.”

Anderson set the motorcycle helmet on a nearby table then in the same motion spun me around in time to the music.

Friends, I am not a good dancer, I am an enthusiastic dancer, especially after drinking my weight in red wine.

But Anderson knew what he was doing—light on his feet even though he was a freaking giant. He did fancy footsteps, one or the other hand always on my waist, shoulder, or neck to keep us moving in unison.

“Now, that’s how we danced in my day!” Great-Aunt Gladys shouted over the music. “None of this grinding hip hop nonsense.”

“Don’t act like you wouldn’t wear those yellow panties to light up your rear end when the sailors would toss you over their head!” Her sister cackled.

The trombone kicked off the final verse of the song. Anderson picked me up in his arms, spinning me around over his head while I shrieked, then set me back down like I weighed less than an empty eggnog carton.

“May all your Christmases be black and gray!” I sang along with the end of the song, smoothing my hands down the lapels of his jacket.

“You didn’t think I’d find a suit, did you?” His eyes narrowed slyly.

“I didn’t think you’d actually show up.”

His head was turned slightly, like he was listening to a song. Then he smiled at me. “We belong together. I can’t leave you. Besides.” His lower lip caught on his teeth. “I’m not going to let you ruin Christmas without me, Gingersnap.” He took my hand, his fingers caressing mine.

“You look—” Perfect, like a dream, like everything I’ve always wanted. “You look good.”

“Good?” A dark eyebrow rose. “I was going for panty-dropping.”

“Great-Uncle Horace has incontinence, and usually, the Depends end up on the floor at some point.”

Anderson blinked hard. “Gingersnap, if you care—” He kissed my mouth. “About me.” Another kiss. “Even one shred in your cold little heart, please tie me up in Christmas lights and toss me off your parents’ roof if I ever get that bad.”

“Granny Doyle thinks Uncle Horace wouldn’t have such a problem if he cut back on the alcohol. She says with the number of pills he’s taking, it’s a recipe for disaster.”

“She killed her husband, right?” he whispered into my neck. “So I guess she’d know.”

“Rumors. Baseless rumors.” Granny Doyle appeared next to me. “Pull up your top,” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

I adjusted my dress.

Gran handed Anderson a glass of scotch.

“Higher.” She gestured. “Us bigger girls need to wear ’em high and proud.” She grabbed my boobs, hoisting them up.

Anderson tried to hand her the glass back.

“That’s yours, sonny. I was saving it for you. You can’t believe the people here. Already stealing the refreshments to take home. Bettie came with five Tupperware containers in her bag.”

A large glass bottle fell out from under her dress and landed on Anderson’s boot.

He grunted.

“I earned that.” Granny Doyle hurried to grab the bottle and pressed it against her dress. “You wouldn’t believe the nonsense I have to put up with. There are people coming out of the woodwork. Folks I haven’t seen in a decade. They’d do anything for a free meal and hot gossip.”

Relatives I barely recognized were flocking to me. Granny Doyle tried to run point, explaining in elaborate detail with interpretive dance moves what had gone down last Christmas then how Anderson had materialized.

Appreciative noises were made when the picture of him was passed around.

A pack of little boys raced up to him, wanting to see his tattoos. My tween emo cousins stood off to the side, trying to be sneaky about taking photos of my fake boyfriend. A gaggle of elderly women from the local DAR hobbled by to feel up Anderson, giggling as he lifted his arm, one little old white-haired lady swinging like a school girl.

“Now, you hold on to that one.” She wagged her finger at me. “When you’re young and your tits aren’t down to your knees, you think men like that grow on trees.”

Anderson accepted his adoring fans with smirks, smoldering glances, and a hand firmly on the curve of my back.

That hand slid down the low-cut dress to my ass, settling in the little pocket between my legs, then coming around to rest on my hip.

“Did I ever tell you,” he whispered into my ear, so low and rough that I almost thought I was hallucinating, “that dress makes me want to fuck you? And not even to make your parents mad, just because I want to feel your cunt clench around my cock as I make you come.”

He straightened back up, his hands running up the curve of my shapewear-cinched waist.

I stared straight ahead at the stage for a moment then dared to look at him.

He was pleasantly waiting as my dad helped Grandma Shirley up to the stage.

Anderson winked at me.

The microphone screeched.

“My husband, may God rest his soul…” Grandma Shirley broadcasted, my father standing beside her.

“It begins,” Granny Doyle muttered then took a swig from a bottle.

“Would be so thrilled to have us all together for Christmas.” She clasped her hands to her chest. “He loved these holiday parties bringing together family and friends—”

“And prisoners!” Granny Doyle shouted.

“Wait. Are you out on parole, Anderson?” Several of my college-age cousins on winter break gathered around him.

“Do you have an ankle bracelet?” my little cousin Alfie demanded.

My dad glared at me from across the room.

I made a What-can-I-do? gesture.

“The holiday season,” Grandma Shirley continued loudly, making everyone wince, “is about family, it is about faith, and above all, it is about traditional values. Christmas was never about presents. Rather, it—”

“A puppy!” a little girl in her father’s arms squealed. “Daddy, it’s a puppy.”

“Isn’t that nice. Someone surprised their kid with a—fuuuck!”

Snowball, melted ice dripping off of her fur, pranced into the ballroom, big red bow in her hair to try to make her look cute and not like a dog that couldn’t be trusted home alone by herself.

Her fluffy white tail was held high as she trotted up to the stage and dropped her prize right at Grandma Shirley’s feet.

The ceramic dildo rolled twice then came to a rest, the large balls with EVELYN emblazoned on the underside in bright-red paint turned to the audience.

My tipsy sisters and cousins all erupted in shrieks of laughter.

Should I run out the door? Die right here on the floor? Hide behind Anderson?

“Oh, good,” Aunt Trish said loudly in her teacher’s voice, which carried all the way through the ballroom, “you like the gift, Evie! I’m so glad! It’s not an art piece. It’s designed to be used.”

“Ugh, gross. Is that why it’s wet?” Irene blurted out.

“Remove this at once!” Grandma Shirley thundered. She turned to my father. “Your daughter has ruined this event. I need to lie down.”

“It’s not wet from me. The dog was slobbering all over it!” I yelled, finally picking the literal worst option as per usual and running, not very fast on account of my too-tight dress and heels, to pick up the dog-slobber-covered ceramic dildo and the dog.

Well, I tried to pick up the dog.

“Snowball, come.”

She panted I made desperate come motions.

“Snowball.” Anderson whistled sharply, and the dog leaped off the stage to run and sit at his feet. “Good girl.”

My female relatives chattered.

“If he talked to me like that, I’d be his good girl.”

“Can’t believe she’s using a dildo with a man like that.”

“It’s a damn shame.”

“Youth and a tight vagina are wasted on young girls these days.”

Beside me, Anderson’s shoulders were shaking.

“I’m literally dying here. You cannot be laughing.” I pinched him.

Anderson bit back a smirk. “I didn’t know you wanted cock that bad, Evie.”