Page 5 of Starstruck with the Krampus

GIANNA

It took all of my willpower to keep my hands off Mr. Koch as I escorted him out of the office. I wanted to hug him and kiss his cheeks to congratulate him on his birthday, but I didn’t dare do that with so many people in their cubicles around us. At any moment, Mr. Webber could return to the conference room to see what was taking us so long. But mostly I was afraid of touching Mr. Koch—because I might not be able to stop.

So I made myself stand back, even as I admired how the gold flecks sparkled in his dark eyes. I only followed him to the elevator and didn’t shake his hand. And when I returned to my small office, I didn’t search for what his supernatural creature might be, not that I had a lot to go on. If he wanted me to know, he would have shown it to me, and I had to respect his privacy.

I hope he’ll feel comfortable enough to share that part of himself with me soon. I don’t care what he is—but I admit my curiosity has been building for a full year. I’ve studied all other supernaturals I’ve come in contact with, from bear shifters to witches to kraken, yet Mr. Koch was unlike any of them. So I’ve had to bide my time and wait for him to open up.

The cookies I made him were an offering—a small token that will hopefully let him know I’ve been thinking of him. I didn’t break any office rules by giving them to him. Business partners get gifts all the time, and that was my contribution to keeping good relations with our best client. Or at least that was the excuse I had planned if Mr. Webber had caught me gifting him the cookies.

Now that I’ve left the office for the last time this year, I have to get ready for the party. We’ll be celebrating at Mr. Webber’s house, and from what Stacy, who was in charge of sending out invitations, told me, it’s going to be a big one. More than a hundred people were invited, from coworkers to business partners and family members, apparently. I never had a job like this before, one where networking and making nice with your superiors was as important as in this one. I should be thinking of my career and making sure I put the best foot forward, but all I’ve thought about since coming home is Mr. Koch and his promise that he’d be there.

When I stepped into the shower, I thought of him. When I shaved my legs and put on vanilla-scented lotion, I thought of him. By the time I get to applying my makeup and curling my hair, I’m a trembling mess, because that’s what thinking of him does to me.

I dab a shimmering champagne eyeshadow on my eyelids, then swipe on a coat of mascara. I think of applying some blush, but I’m already flushed pink, and I don’t want to appear as if I’m feverish. It’s bad enough that my eyes are shiny and my hands are shaking. Anything more, and they’ll turn me away at the door, thinking I’m sick.

But I can’t resist putting on a blood-red lipstick. When I saw tonight’s dress in the shopping mall, I knew I had to buy it—and pair it with this bold lip color.

My first thought was that Mr. Koch might like it—it’s only a couple of shades brighter than the muted red he’d picked as the base of his branding. I loved working on his portfolio, and not just because I got to spend time with him. The colors he’d picked were strong, red and emerald green and gold, unlike the more popular neutrals that most brands choose to work with these days.

I briefly consider the possibility that it might be too forward of me to come to the party wrapped in his favorite color. But I couldn’t pass up the dress. When I’d put it on at the shop, it fit me perfectly, accentuating my curves without molding to me too tightly. The short sleeves which covered my shoulders and the skirt which hit just above the knees made it appropriate for the work event.

I take it from the hanger now and slip it over my head. The buttery smooth fabric slides over my skin, and I fight down another shiver. I squeeze my thighs together to cool the ache between my legs, but it doesn’t work. Still, I give myself a quick mental slap and sit on the bed to put on my stockings.

They’re sheer black thigh-highs, with a line running up the back of the leg, and are the naughtiest piece of this entire ensemble. If the cut of the dress is demure enough, its color and these tights will bring it up on the sexy scale.

Not to mention the gold heels I’ve picked, the ones I wore to my cousin Roberta’s lavish wedding. The entire ensemble is…festive. I feel like a present, wrapping myself up for the right person to untie me.

Though I wouldn’t mind Mr. Koch tying me up.

The thought is quick and potent, the image flashing through my mind enough to leave me panting on the edge of my bed. God, the man has me going crazy. Maybe he’s a sex demon. An incubus, I think they’re called.

But a sex demon would flirt indiscriminately with everyone who came in their path, no? Mr. Koch has never even looked at Stacy—nor any of the men at the office for that matter.

He’s only had eyes for me.

Now that he has admitted his only reason for coming to the party is to see me, I can finally be honest with myself, too. He’s watched me closely all through the year. And I know that at least half of the in-person meetings we had could have been emails. Yet I never resented him for that because it meant more time spent with him, even if it was only staring at him over the conference table.

Tonight, all this might change. I bite my lip, considering for a moment that I should perhaps take the edge off my need, bring myself to a climax so I won’t be panting over him the moment I arrive at the party.

But I don’t have the time. If I don’t leave now, I’ll miss my taxi, and then it’ll be impossible to get another this late on Christmas Eve.

I pick up my perfume to spray my neck and wrists, then think better of it and aim a single pump into my hair instead. I want to taste good tonight, just in case.

I step into my gold heels, grab my sequined gold clutch, and put on my gray wool peacoat. I wrap a thick wool scarf around my neck, not caring that it sort of ruins my outfit—I’m tempting fate with the thin tights and heels as it is, and I have no intention of freezing out there any more than I have to. Then I lock up for the night, slip my keys into my clutch, and hurry down the hallway of my building.

I make it outside just in time to see my cab pull up. It’s a good thing, too, because it’s snowing again. Maine has been getting more snowfall this year than any on the record, and I love it. I slide into the back seat of the cab, click on my seat belt, and tell the driver Mr. Webber’s address.

Somewhere in the street behind us, a powerful car engine purrs to life, and I turn halfway to peer out the back window, but all I see are headlights in the distance, so I focus on the cabbie and his excitement that I’m his last ride of the day.

It doesn’t take long to cross to the other side of Clearwater, but the houses here are significantly nicer than the buildings in my part of the town. Here, the plots are larger, each with a long driveway, and I can’t help but admire the lovely Christmas decorations on the lawns.

Then the driver says, “Wow.”

I peer through the windshield to see what’s going on—and squint.

The house at the very end of this cul-de-sac looks like Christmas threw up on it. Every square foot of the roof is covered with blinking yellow string lights. All the trees in the yard—and there are several of them—are wrapped in multi-colored lights, a full rainbow flashing out at us. There’s an inflatable Santa with a sleigh and six reindeer, all lit up with white floodlights, and real-life torches line the freshly shoveled driveway. A huge fire burns in a brazier by the door, which is surely a hazard, since the front door is decked with boughs of pine, carrying even more twinkling lights.

“Jesus Christ,” the cabbie mutters. “This is giving me a headache.”

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