Page 39 of The Grump Who Stole Christmas
“So if she’s not the reason you don’t mess around with corporate types any more, then what is?”
He leaned down a little so that he was closer to me. Or maybe I was leaning a little closer to him?
“Silk blouses.”
“What?” I asked, struggling to understand the meaning behind his words.
“I hate silk blouses. Total turnoff for me,” he said, his voice gruff in a way that sort of belied what he was saying.
I touched the silk collar around my neck. The button that fell just at the dip in my collarbone.
“You don’t like the feel of silk?” I asked, my finger trailing down just to the upper swell of my breast.
“Nope,” he said, even as his eyes followed my finger. “Too…silky.”
“Hmm. That’s a shame. I happen to have a lot of silk blouses.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing we don’t like each other all that much. What with all that silk you’re wearing, I would never be tempted to touch you.”
“Yeah,” I whispered. Was his face getting closer to mine? “Good thing.”
“You like any vegetables to go with that pasta?”
“I only eat lettuce.”
“Figures. Okay, Kay-Kay, I’ll hook you up.”
He moved away from me and was already walking out of the office while I still felt like I’d been enthralled by a snake charmer.
“What just happened?” I asked the empty room. “And why do I have this urge to buy flannel shirts?”
With no answer forthcoming, I turned back to my spreadsheets and my musing on themed cabins.
“Dasher and Dancer, Pantser and Vixen…yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s right.”
TEN
Later That Night
Paul
It was official. I freaking loved watching Kay-Kay eat. Brownies, breakfast, it didn’t matter. She did this thing after every bite where she closed her eyes and tilted her head back slightly as if each individual bite deserved to be savored. Chewed thoughtfully. Tasted completely.
She was making a sound that could have easily been mistaken for sex noises as she chewed on the cheesy pasta. So much I might have teased her about it, if her dad hadn’t also been sitting at the table.
“What did you call this, Paul?” Pops asked me.
“Carbonara.”
“I’ve had that before, in restaurants,” Pops said around another mouthful. “There’s supposed to be peas in it.”
“Not the way the Italians do it. Just pancetta, garlic, egg, and cheese. I like some red pepper chili flakes for heat.”
“Been to Italy?” Pops asked.
Kay-Kay was quiet because she was still doing the twirl the fork in the pasta, spear the pancetta, plop it in her mouth, head tilt up, and chew, chew, chew thing.
“A few times. Sometimes work, sometimes pleasure. The Italians are amazing farmers and do an incredible job of making the best use of the land in the various different regions around the country.”
