Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 57067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
“I can use a different name, pretend I’m a gambling addict, and have a look around.”
I take her hand, gliding my thumb over her knuckle. She’s hot to the touch. “No, Celine. That’s final. If you push me on this, I’ll be forced to make sure you don’t go anywhere until this is over.”
She stares at me for a few moments. Solid, unflinching. Then sighs. “Whatever. It was just a thought.”
She drops onto the couch, sulking.
I return to the coffee table and open the laptop. A few of the keys have come loose from where I closed it too hard. Luckily, it still seems functional.
For several minutes, we sit in awkward silence. I’ve done the right thing in warning her away. She has no place in this world. Somehow, I still feel bad about it.
“What do people do that makes Christmas so special, anyway?”
She tries to hide her excitement behind her cup. Fails big time. “Nice try. Gold star for the change of subject.”
“I’m curious.”
“You’ve had your Grinch heart-expanding moment then?”
I gesture to the decorations. “All this merriment has got me thinking of adding some more.”
She gives me a sassy eye roll that makes me want to spank her into submission. “Sure you do.”
“I mean it. Tell me.”
She shrugs. “Lots of things. Sometimes, Mom and I make snowflakes out of paper and hang them all over the house. There’s an art to it–a science. We won’t get to do it this year.”
“Hopefully by Christmas Day you and your fam—”
“They’re having Christmas abroad this year. It’s got nothing to do with all this stuff.”
Oh.
She looks sad about that.
I stand, leave the room, and go into the kitchen. Grab a stack of white paper and some scissors.
She smiles, eyebrows raised. “Are you serious?”
“Very,” I tell her. “Show me how it’s done.”
“Really?”
“Don’t make me beg.”
She laughs. “I don’t know. I quite like the idea of you on your knees, begging me…”
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Candycane.”
“Ha. That might be my favorite one yet.”
I close the laptop again and set it aside. Spread the paper over the coffee table and hand her the scissors, handle first. “I’ve given you a peek into my world. Time for you to return the favor.”
CHAPTER 17
CELINE
As if this couldn’t get any more surreal…
The scissors look tiny in his big paw-like hands, his concentration clear in the care he takes with each cut, paper shrapnel covering the floor at his feet. I watch him with a glow in my chest that’s downright intoxicating.
“How’s that?” he asks, holding up the cut-out snowflake.
“Actually, very good.”
“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” he says, with another smile.
Each one feels like a victory, like a medal, like I’ve earned something. The sister in me almost wishes he hadn’t revealed the light in his darkness. It was easier to resist him–not easy, but theoretically possible–before I knew he helped people: saved them.
“Shall I add it to the pile then, Ms. Claus?”
I smile and nod to the pile of snowflakes. It’s already stacked high. “Yeah. I think we should start hanging them soon. Then we’ll get a better idea of how much more we need.”
He stands and picks up a pile. “Sounds like a plan to me.”
My smile widens, adding to the drunk feeling. He makes me feel warmer and more in-the-moment than eggnog ever could. We go into the hallway together, and he turns to me, his dark eyes seeming brighter, a tiny bit more… human.
“Where shall we put the first one?” he asks.
I tap my chin. “Maybe we can run them along the stairs?”
He nods. “Good idea. I’ll find some string.”
He walks down the hallway. I’ll never get tired of watching his broad, muscled back. He loves wearing tank tops, or perhaps that’s a new addition because he knows how crazy the thick corded muscles on the back of his arms drive me.
He returns with a ball of string.
“For such a Grinch, you have a lot of arts-and-craft stuff.”
He looks at me, smile gone, something dangerous flitting across his expression. I don’t even have to ask to know he’s used this string for something that has nothing to do with the arts. My mind struggles to think of something mob-related. Torture by tying around fingers? Securing big bands of cash?
“Oh,” I mutter.
He ignores me, walks toward the stairs, and nods. “You should do the honors.”
I take the ball of string from him, our hands touching, that familiar yet always new electricity humming between us. I walk up a couple of steps and take a snowflake, carefully piercing the edge with the tip of the scissors and sliding the string through.
“What do you think?” I ask, looking over my shoulder.
He’s not looking at the decorations. He’s staring at my ass with no shame on his scarred, devastatingly handsome face.
He’s staring like he can’t look away.