Page 2 of Oh No, My Best Friend Hates Christmas!

When I’m done savoring, I twist my head to give him a smile.

His hot chocolate brown eyes crinkle down at me, and his mouth lifts into the thought of a smile.

I allow myself to take him in – his jaw, his cheekbones, his eyebrows. His features are a practice in sharpness, all straight lines and unyielding edges, softened only by the curve of hisnose ring and the sweep of smooth, dark hair flowing past his shoulders.

That hair slides against my cheek as he leans down to give me another light kiss – this time on my forehead – before returning his focus to the book in his hand. I follow his example, lying my head back down on his shoulder and opening my own book.

I sigh.

This.

Thisis Christmas.

Fire. Books. Cozy couch cuddles with the only man I’ve ever loved– er, with my bestest, bestest friend.

Love and comfort. Peace. Tranquility. A kaleidoscope of butterflies in my belly.

Yeah, this is Christmas, and I love it more than anything.

If only Baz loved Christmas too.

Chapter One

On December first, we go tree chopping. And by “we”, I mean Baz, because the last thing I’m ever going to do is wander around in the forest in clunky snow boots, trying to find a tree to hack at and then drag home. Sounds like uncomfortable manual labor to me. No, thanks.

Instead, I sit at home, barefoot and carefree, sipping warm cider from my favorite snowman mug and having my bi-weekly therapy session with Archie.

Archie lives across the street and three houses down, one of the seven of us who live in “the compound”, as we’ve taken to calling it. The compound is… special.

When I applied online for an administrative assistant position, never in a million years would I have guessed that it was for an assassin who lives in a secret compound in the woods of Kentucky.

Yes. You read that right. An assassin.

I started working for Stryker straight out of college, about five years ago. I was lured in by the pay –wowza– and the perks. Free housing, a pool, a gym, and two provided meals a day? Sign me up.

It wasn’t until I got here that Rosie, Baz’s mom and Stryker’s “handler”, sat me down and explained that the boss man is, in fact, a cold-blooded killer.Buthe only kills monsters and rapists and kid abusers. Rosie showed me a whole bunch of disturbing and terrifyingly thick files that detailed Stryker’s past targets. I threw up, negotiated a pay rate that was double the insane amount already being offered, and moved in the next day.

Surprisingly, the job isn’t all that different from otherassistant jobs I had through college. I schedule appointments. I make phone calls. I pick up dry cleaning. It’s just that those appointments, phone calls, and dry-cleaning runs –especiallythe dry cleaning runs – often involve blood, murder, and a lot of money being exchanged.

After I accepted the job, Rosie set me up in Baz’s spare room as temporary housing until they could, and I quote, “build a suitable house” for me. Temporary quickly became permanent as Baz and I discovered we made good housemates. That, along with my extreme aversion to being gifteda whole house,cinched the deal quite nicely.

I had been at the job for a little less than a week when I met Archie and Sal. Stryker had “family dinner” blocked on his schedule and told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was expected to attend as well.

Archie, the resident computer and torture expert – yes,torturetorture – was hosting that week. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t a man dressed in a full tuxedo and wearing a monocle. His family dinner garb is almost as outrageous as the outfit he wears for therapy each week.

He dons what he calls his “therapist deluxe gear,” which consists of khaki pants, a tweed jacket, and black, thick framed glasses. He wears loafers – in the house, which is not allowed – and a sliver of sock peeks through in the space between his shoes and pants. This week, chickens wearing Santa hats sprinkle a red and green striped background. Very festive. I approve. He carries a pipe as well, occasionally blowing on it to make bubbles float around our heads. Very annoying. I do not approve.

The outfit looks ridiculous on him, but not because it’s ill-fitting or anything. He’s had it tailored since our first meeting, when the jacket and pants both dwarfed his frame completely. It was like getting counseling from a dressed-up toddler.

I swat a bubble away from my face. It’sstilllike gettingcounseling from a dressed-up toddler.

While nottechnicallya licensed therapist, Archie is the closest I’ve got to one on the compound. And it’s not like I could go to a real therapist out in the normal world. What would I say?

“Oh, yes, hello, Mister Therapist Sir. My name is Heidi, and I work for an assassin – yes, of course, one who kills people. Anyway, I’m desperately in love with my best friend, who used to be an assassin as well, and my only form of counseling up to this point has been from a man who cuts people up in his basement for work. Hmm? Oh, no. The killing and the torture aren’t the problem. It’s the unrequited love. What’s that? Involuntary hold? Why–”

“I could cut his hair, if that would help.”

“I’m not in love with him because of hishair,Archie.” I smile at him, teeth bared. “And if you get within ten feet of him with a pair of scissors, I will pour your entire stock of acid on your face while you sleep.”

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