Stop. Talking. About. Cats.
Grant’s lips twitched. “Good to know you have a type.”
“Yeah. Cats are loyal, mostly.” I twisted the end of my hair around my finger, my mind unraveling faster than a ball of yarn. “They also bring you gifts sometimes. Dead ones, sure, but… it’s the thought that counts.”
Oh, jeeze. Just kill me now, and I’ll move in with my new spirit friend.
“Do you like cats?” I asked weakly.
I’ve died.
He laughed then—reallylaughed—and the sound was unfairly good. Deep, unguarded, the kind that made me forget I was rambling uncontrollably about felines.
“Come on,” he said, still smiling. “I want to see what that mind of yours bought me for Christmas.”
He dropped onto the couch beside the hearth, and I set the silver box in his hands before I could overthink it.
“You’re laughing now,” I warned, “but prepare to be emotionally moved. I should have brought tissues.”
“That so?” He brushed his thumb along the edge of the bow, eyes flicking up to mine. “The mistletoe’s a nice touch. You wrapped this?”
“I aim to win.”
The corner of his mouth lifted again. He tore the paper with exaggerated slowness as if this was the only present he’d get all year and he wanted to savor every second.
When he lifted the lid, he went still. He stared at it for so long my nerves did a somersault, and I wondered if I’d forgotten to add the tie. Was he staring into any empty box? I leaned forward, nope, tiny flamingos in Santa hats marched proudly across an ink blue necktie.
“Um… I still have the receipt,” I said, reaching for the box. “You’re a division leader now. I just thought—”
He dodged my hand and pulled out the tie, silently running his fingers along the fabric.
“The thing is,” I rushed on, “I think your suits are so… somber.”
“Funerals,” he muttered, almost to himself.
“Exactly. You wear all that gray and navy like armor. But that tie reminds me of you,” I said. “Well, theyoubeneath the suit.”
His head lifted. The firelight caught his eyes, turning them gold.
“I love it, Spells.”
The words landed low and rough, like he meant more than the tie. Neither of us spoke. The only sound was the quiet pop of the fire. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to win anymore. I just wanted to linger in that look. Like I’d handed him a miracle and not a polyester blend with atropical print.
He set the tie carefully on the arm of the couch, smoothing the fabric once more with his thumb. Then he reached for the box beside him.
“Guess it’s my turn.”
It was the size of a shoebox, wrapped in simple brown paper and tied with a green ribbon. A tiny jingle bell hung from the end. I gave it a shake near my ear.
“It's not ticking, that’s a good sign.”
He didn’t even smirk. That gold firelight in his gaze was so intense, just watching me as if he was battling second thoughts.
“Wait.” His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around my wrist. “You might hate it.”
“I might.”
The pained look in his eyes made my heart squeeze.
