Page 7 of Starstruck with the Krampus

“Come on,” he commands, waving me toward the bar. “Drinks will make everything better.”

Heseemsto be commiserating with me, but the way he drags his gaze from the top of my head to my boobs, my legs, and back to my boobs has me feeling super icky.

“That’s all right. I was just about to…”

But he’s not listening to me anymore. Instead, he marches right past the queue at the bar, leans his elbows on the polished countertop, and loudly demands two glasses of champagne. The woman behind the bar frowns at him but pours two glasses of golden, bubbly liquid that he takes without saying thank you or apologizing to the other guests for cutting in the line.

“Here.” He shoves one glass in my hands. “What’s the point of hosting this damn party if I can’t get some perks out of it, right?”

He laughs, the sound jarring, then tosses back half his glass in one gulp. I move a step away from him, awkwardly clutching the flute but not taking a sip.

“Well, come on, drink up,” he says. “You can’t dance with a glass in your hand.”

“Dance?” I ask, my voice rising half an octave. I want to jam the flute up his ass for being obnoxious but I remind myself he’s my boss’ son and shrug helplessly instead. “No, uh, I couldn’t. My feet are killing me.”

He stares down at my golden stilettos and snorts. “Yeah, I can imagine. But they make your legs look fucking hot.” He finally glances up into my face. “I have to admit, my father usually misses completely when trying to set me up, but you’re not bad. Wanna see my room?”

I gape like a fish, not trusting myself to speak. Did he really…?

But yes, of course he did. He’s the heir of a successful dynasty of witches who has never been told no in his life. Brandon downs the rest of his champagne, shoves it in a passing waiter’s hand even though the woman in question isn’t collecting glasses but carrying a tray of caviar-topped canapes, and lifts his eyebrows at me in a gesture that says,Well, what are we waiting for?

“No, thank you,” I say firmly. “I’m sorry, but this has been a misunderstanding.”

I turn to leave, fully intending to disappear into the crowd and hide in some corner until it’s late enough that I won’t seem too impolite if I leave. Or I’ll join Stacy and Brian and attempt a three-way waltz if I have to, as long it gets me away from Brandon.

But he catches my wrist, yanking me back to his side. “Come on, don’t be rude, Gianna.”

His voice is deceptively soft, far too smooth for my liking.

“Let me go,” I hiss. “Or I’ll scream.”

Helaughs, the fucker.

“You don’t want to make a scene, do you?” He smiles at me so that anyone watching us would think we’re having a pleasant conversation, but he doesn’t let go of my hand. “My father wouldsohate to lose his star designer, but my mother hates any kind of scandal.”

His palm is getting hotter. I glance down and gasp—a glow is emanating from it, and he’s burning my skin. Not enough to blister, perhaps, but it feels like holding my hand right against a stove that’s heating up.

A shadow appears behind Brandon.

I hadn’t seen Mr. Koch come up to us because I was too focused on getting away from Brandon, but the immediate sense of relief that washes through me almost makes me sob. He’s not looking at me, though.

He puts his hand on Brandon’s shoulder, squeezes him, and murmurs, “Let her go.”

My captor releases me immediately. His eyes blow wide in terror, and he lets out a pathetic whimper.

“Shh,” Mr. Koch croons. “Come along now, Brandon, let’s find a more private place to talk.”

He glances at me and pauses. “Are you all right?”

I nod, too stunned to speak.

“I need to take out the trash,” he tells me. “Will you wait for me? Please, don’t go anywhere.”

Whatever he’s doing to Brandon must be terrifying, because the witch is trembling now, his face snow-white. But I’m not afraid.

“Okay,” I whisper.

He hesitates a moment longer, then gently guides Webber Junior through the crowd, even saying hello to some people. Brandon walks along with him, meek as a puppet, without a word of protest.

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