I stand, leave the room, and go into the kitchen. Grab a stack of white paper and some scissors.
She smiles, eyebrows raised. “Are you serious?”
“Very,” I tell her. “Show me how it’s done.”
“Really?”
“Don’t make me beg.”
She laughs. “I don’t know. I quite like the idea of you on your knees, begging me…”
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Candycane.”
“Ha. That might be my favorite one yet.”
I close the laptop again and set it aside. Spread the paper over the coffee table and hand her the scissors, handle first. “I’ve given you a peek into my world. Time for you to return the favor.”
CHAPTER 17
CELINE
As if this couldn’t get any more surreal…
The scissors look tiny in his big paw-like hands, his concentration clear in the care he takes with each cut, paper shrapnel covering the floor at his feet. I watch him with a glow in my chest that’s downright intoxicating.
“How’s that?” he asks, holding up the cut-out snowflake.
“Actually, very good.”
“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” he says, with another smile.
Each one feels like a victory, like a medal, like I’ve earned something. The sister in me almost wishes he hadn’t revealed the light in his darkness. It was easier to resist him–not easy, but theoretically possible–before I knew he helped people: saved them.
“Shall I add it to the pile then, Ms. Claus?”
I smile and nod to the pile of snowflakes. It’s already stacked high. “Yeah. I think we should start hanging them soon. Then we’ll get a better idea of how much more we need.”
He stands and picks up a pile. “Sounds like a plan to me.”
My smile widens, adding to the drunk feeling. He makes me feel warmer and more in-the-moment than eggnog ever could. We go into the hallway together, and he turns to me, his dark eyes seeming brighter, a tiny bit more… human.
“Where shall we put the first one?” he asks.
I tap my chin. “Maybe we can run them along the stairs?”
He nods. “Good idea. I’ll find some string.”
He walks down the hallway. I’ll never get tired of watching his broad, muscled back. He loves wearing tank tops, or perhaps that’s a new addition because he knows how crazy the thick corded muscles on the back of his arms drive me.
He returns with a ball of string.
“For such a Grinch, you have a lot of arts-and-craft stuff.”
He looks at me, smile gone, something dangerous flitting across his expression. I don’t even have to ask to know he’s used this string for something that has nothing to do with the arts. My mind struggles to think of something mob-related. Torture by tying around fingers? Securing big bands of cash?
“Oh,” I mutter.
He ignores me, walks toward the stairs, and nods. “You should do the honors.”
