Page 4 of Starstruck with the Krampus

I make a mental note of it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She flushes a deeper red, and I realize what I implied—that we’d be spending more time together, time where it’ll be important for me to know her food preferences.

Or perhaps I’m reading into things and she’s simply overheated because of her thick cashmere sweater. It’s pale blue and hugs her body perfectly, and I?—

I should be opening the present.

Fuck. I never get distracted like this. Frowning, I focus my attention back on the small box. I carefully lift the top off, and the scent of amaretti biscuits wafts up to me, potent and inviting.

“They’re the soft kind,” she explains, leaning forward. Her hair slips past her shoulders in rich waves, and she tucks it behind her ears, animated now. “In shops, you usually get the hard, crunchy ones, but I’ve always preferred these.”

I glance up at her eyes. “Did you bake these?”

She gives me a tiny smile and nods. “My nonna’s recipe. They’re the real deal.”

“Thank you,” I repeat. “This is the best gift I got this year.”

Then I take one of the pale biscuits out of the box and pop it in my mouth.

Taste explodes over my tongue, rich and sweet, and I barely hold back a groan. Gianna made these? As if I needed another reason to be obsessed with her.

“These are amazing,” I exclaim and eat another, then force myself to put the lid back on. I want to eat them slowly, savor them one by one, not gobble them all at once. They’re a thing to be enjoyed with time.

Like her.

I give myself a firm mental smack to get my mind away from the picture of her spread thighs, an offering for me to savor and taste.

Gianna’s smile grows. “Thank you. That’s a relief. Not everyone likes them.”

I tuck the box into the pocket of my coat. “Now you’ll have to tell me when your birthday is so I can return the favor.”

She sends me a naughty look, batting her eyelashes. “You’ll bake me cookies?”

I laugh. “Brat. But yes, if you wish, I’ll bake you cookies, Gianna.”

Her sweet scent intensifies, mixing deliciously with the aroma of the amaretti. “It’s not until spring,” she says. “April twenty-sixth.”

It fits. Whenever I think of her, I’m reminded of flowers, of warmth. She’s bursting with life and so beautiful. She thrives in the sun, as I saw over the last year of working with her. In the summer, her tan skin got a golden sheen to it from all the time she’d spent outside.

I would ruin her. I’m a creature of winter, of cold, and I prefer the dark part of the year. I’m happiest when holed away in my workshop, crafting my pieces by the light of the fire.

I stand, mourning the fact that our time together is over.

“Are you really coming to the party?” she asks.

I should say no. It’s Christmas Eve, the night when my powers will be the most volatile, so I should spend it alone in my house, on a phone call with my witchy friend, planning on taking down all the assholes on my list with a few careful clicks of her keyboard.

Perhaps if Gianna had asked me this question on any other day of the year, I would have had the strength, the will to say no. But I’m weak. And selfish beyond compare.

“I am,” I say, then amend, “If you will be there as well.”

Her eyes widen, and I wait, holding my breath. I didn’t simply ask her if she was attending—I essentially told her I would be going just to see her. I cannot say more, so I hope she understands. I hope she takes the step toward me, meeting me halfway, because I cannot in good conscience press her for more.

It has to be her own decision to join me in the dark.

But she gives me that beautiful smile, dimples popping in her cheeks. “I’ll see you there.”

CHAPTER 3

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