Page 32 of Never Kiss a Krampus
“That it is important to complete the tasks you begin.”
I busied myself with gathering empty ornament boxes, folding them neatly and stacking them on the counter, doing my best to avoid thinking of husbands on my hips and his body against mine.
“So,” I said, without turning around. “What’s the verdict? Am I still a failing business owner with a disastrous decorating sense?”
“You learn quickly when corrected.” He moved to stand beside me, looking at the tree. “You are not a lost cause, little human. Merely… misguided.”
“I’ll take misguided over hopeless any day.” I finally risked a glance at him. The warm glow of the Christmas lights softened the harsh angles of his face and made the silver in his dark fur gleam. “Now what?”
The question came out more breathless than I intended, and I saw his tail flick before he glanced away. “We should finish decorating,” he said, his voice rough. “Before the shop opens.”
“Right. Yes. Decorating.” I grabbed the next box, grateful for something to do with my hands. “What’s next on your list of proper seasonal reverence?”
His mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile but was close enough. “Garland. The windows need garlands.”
“The windows need garlands,” I repeated. “Of course they do.”
“Symmetrical garlands.”
“Naturally.”
“With proper spacing and adequate greenery-to-ornament ratio.”
“Is there a mathematical formula for that?”
“Obviously.”
I’d summoned the world’s most perfectionist Krampus. Of course I had.
CHAPTER 12
The garlands were perfect. Not just pretty, but flawless. Each one an exact mirror of the others across the windows, the deep green of the fir boughs dotted with stars and cranberries and tiny, unlit candles he insisted were “a necessary traditional touch.” He was a tyrant with tinsel, a despot about decorations, and the shop had never looked better.
I climbed the stepladder again while he supervised from below. His hands stayed carefully on the sides of the ladder this time, but I could feel his gaze on me, heavy and unnerving. Every time I reached too far or twisted at an awkward angle, he’d make a low sound of disapproval.
“You’re going to pull a muscle,” he said.
“I’m perfectly flexible.”
“Flexibility is not the same as proper mechanics.”
“Are you going to critique my posture all day?”
“Until you learn proper body mechanics, yes.”
The tree blazed with light and color. The windows were framed in elegant swags. The air smelled of pine and cinnamon. It felt… hopeful.
“You know,” I said, straightening the last of the silver ribbon on a display, “I think you missed your calling. You should have been a holiday decorator.”
“Iama holiday decorator.” He adjusted an angel on the tree until it was tilted at a precise, perfect angle. “I simply prefer a more dramatic aesthetic. Chains. Despair. The weeping of the wicked.”
“Same skill set, different materials.”
“Precisely.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said quietly, stepping back to admire our work. “It hasn’t looked this good since… since Gran was here.”
“You did most of the work,” he said.
