Page 19 of Never Kiss a Krampus
“My grandmother used to say the same thing.”
“Your grandmother was wise.”
The compliment caught me off guard. I’d been bracing for criticism all morning, waiting for him to start cataloging my failures. Instead, he was praising my supplier’s flawed nutcrackers and posing for teenager TikToks.
The afternoon passed in a blur of wrapping paper and ribbon and cheerful conversations. Every customer who entered stopped at the sight of Bastian, but none of them fled. Some were curious, some amused, some genuinely impressed by what they assumed was an elaborate costume. A few asked where they could get one like it.
“Unavailable,” he told them. “This is one of a kind.”
By the time six o’clock rolled around and I flipped the sign to “Closed,” I was exhausted but oddly exhilarated. The register had more money than I’d seen in months. The shop had been full of laughter and conversation. For one day, Noelle’s Nook had felt like it used to—alive, vibrant, necessary.
I locked the door and sagged against it, letting out a long breath.
“That was incredible,” I said. “Did you see how many people came in? The sales alone?—”
“Sit,” he interrupted.
I blinked. “What?”
“Sit. It is time to discuss your transgressions.”
CHAPTER 8
Transgressions?Something in his tone made my stomach drop. The hope that had been building all day suddenly felt fragile again, like spun glass about to shatter.
“What transgressions?”
“I will tell you once you sit down.”
“I don’t want to sit down.” I crossed my arms and glared at him, but he only looked amused. At least I thought it was amusement.
“Do you really want to add to your list of punishments, little human?” He gestured to the armchair near the bay window that had been my grandmother’s favorite.
Defiance was not getting me anywhere. I stomped over to the chair and sat, sinking into the familiar cushions that still smelled faintly of my grandmother’s lavender perfume.
“Now what? Are you going to tell me I’ve been naughty?”
“You were dishonest. Repeatedly.”
“I had to be! What was I supposed to say? ‘Hello, welcome to my shop. This is Bastian, the ancient punisher of the wicked, whom I summoned from the netherworld because I was desperate and a little bit drunk’?”
“That would be an acceptable start,” he said, and I swear one corner of his mouth twitched. “But it is not the dishonesty that concerns me most. It is your generosity. You give away too much.”
“Generosity isn’t a bad thing!”
“It is costing you profit.” He moved closer, and I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. “I have calculated the revenue you lost today through such gestures. Would you like to know the sum?”
“Not particularly.”
“Forty-seven dollars and sixty-three cents. In a single day. Multiply that across a year?—”
“This shop isn’t just about profit,” I said, standing up so I didn’t feel quite so small. “It’s about community. About making people feel welcome and valued. My grandmother understood that. She knew that the money would come if people felt cared for.”
“And yet the shop is failing.” He took another step towards me, and his scent surrounded me, frost and smoke and spice. Despite the lecture, my stomach hitched at his closeness.
“So what am I supposed to do?” I asked, hating how my voice cracked.
“I am suggesting you learn the difference between generosity and martyrdom.” He moved away again. “Generosity comesfrom abundance. Martyrdom comes from fear—fear that you are not enough unless you are giving everything away.”
