So did the way we laughed and teased as I snooped through his kitchen, adding flour and salt and oil to a bowl. “This would have been easier with applesauce, but I didn’t think to ask if you had any.”
“Why would I have applesauce?” Sylvik winked. “I’m not three anymore.”
“Awww, did your mom feed you applesauce?”
And that’s how we began a conversation about our childhoods. I had a million questions for him about growing up in Alaska—by now I’d cornered Tarkhan to find out why it was such a big deal that Sylvik had been raisedsecretly here in our world—and his family. I interrupted him only once.
“Do you have any cinnamon?”
He stopped abruptly, wincing. “Uh, maybe. Why?”
Well that was suspicious, wasn’t it? “These ornaments always smell better with cinnamon, and I need it to soak up the extra liquid.”
Moving slowly, almost reluctantly, Sylvik pulled down a shaker from the spice cabinet and handed it to me. I lifted a brow. “It’s still sealed.”
“Uh…yeah. I…” He glanced away. “I don’t use it often.”
Was he blushing? Could orcs blush? Why would it make him uncomfortable?
I shrugged. “Well, then I guess you won’t mind if I use it all today. I’ll replace it.”
“It’s okay,” he croaked, and I studied him curiously as I peeled the seal from the container and dumped the entire contents into the bowl.
Was it my imagination, or did he sway slightly and wrinkle his nose at the smell? Well, maybe he just didn’t like cinnamon or something. Hmm, maybe I should have asked him about that…
Before I could, he cleared his throat and asked me a question about my family’s Christmas traditions, and I decided it wasn’t that important. I stirred, and we talked, and then I sent him off to find the ribbon as I carefully rolled the dough out on a cutting board.
I was cutting out the shapes—free-handing, because he didn’t have cookie cutters—and really enjoying letting my creative side out, when he returned with what turned out to be red string.
“Will this do?” he asked, holding it up. “I needed it to fix something at my old house, and must’ve thrown it in when I was packing up.”
“That’s perfect.” I grinned at him without straightening from my task. “You could even braid it together for garland on the tree! But first we’ll use it to tie loops on these ornaments. Does this look like a candy cane to you?”
When he picked up a knife and came to stand beside me, I gladly moved over—this washistree we were decorating, after all—and had a blast teasing him about his lopsided star.
“Well what aboutthat?” he asked indignantly, pointing his knife at the shape I was working on. “What’s that supposed to be?”
“It’s a snowman! See his little hat?”
“Oh that’s a hat?” He smirked in challenge. “I thought it was a walrus with a goiter.”
Shrieking in indignation, I bumped my shoulder into his playfully. Well, that had been the intention; since he was so much bigger and stronger than me, I ended up just sort of nudging him.
Our bantering continued as we worked, and I realized howcomfortableI felt with Sylvik. I mean, I’d shown up unannounced to discuss work, and instead had just sortof unilaterally decided we’d be Christmasing instead. What? It’s a verb.
You can verb anything if you try hard enough. See what I did there? I verbedverb.
Anyhow.
By the time the dough ornaments were in the oven, perfuming the air of his home with the most delicious cinnamon scent, I’d remembered my whole reason for dropping by uninvited. As I sipped the reheated hot chocolate—it reallywaspretty delicious, and more traditional than theMistletoe Mistake—we flipped through the binder, and I pointed out the new ideas and additions.
“Garrak’s going to do some digging for me,” Sylvik told me, one long finger tapping the photo of the greenery arrangement I’d chosen for inspiration, “but this looks ideal. Korrad told me he remembers one wedding where there was an archway, but made with flowers.”
“Oh, anarch,” I gasped happily, flipping back a few pages to point to one I’d seen from a wedding in Hawaii. “That could work beautifully with her colors and really lean into the winter theme. I can ask Riven?—”
“I’m sure she’d say yes,” Sylvik interrupted with a grin. “She trusts you.”
A warm feeling spread through me. Different from what happened when our hands brushed, and different from when my mom told me she was proud of me…but equally wonderful. Knowing this male—this successful, organized, Type-A male—believed in me? Well, it was a heady feeling.
