Page 25 of Coming for Her Grumpy Boss

chapter

nine

Ford

We make it as far as the kitchen before Mia stops dead, my T-shirt hanging off one shoulder like a crime of opportunity. She turns a slow circle, taking in the clean counters, the bowl of clementines, the undecorated picture windows looking out over the black lake.

“Where did you hide Christmas?” she asks, “and do I need a warrant?”

“It exists,” I say, handing her a glass of water and nabbing two peppermint cocoa packets from the pantry. “It’s in storage.”

“In storage,” she repeats, scandalized. “Like a hostile takeover of joy.”

“I was waiting for the right co-conspirator.” I set the kettle on. “Congratulations. You’ve been promoted.”

She squints at me, but the corner of her mouth betrays her. “This better not be code for a wreath made of spreadsheets.”

“Only Q4 evergreen.” I jerk my chin toward the hallway. “Come on.”

The hall closet is industrial-level organized: labeled bins stacked like Tetris—LIGHTS (WARM), ORNAMENTS (FRAGILE), GARLAND (NO GLITTER UNDER PENALTY OF DEATH), TREE TOPPERS (CONTROVERSIAL). Mia reads the labels and laughs, bright and delighted.

“‘Controversial’?” she says, tapping the last bin.

“Star versus angel is a blood sport in some families.”

“And yours?”

“Ruthless compromise.” I pull the bins down. “We rotate.”

Back in the great room, the tree I had delivered yesterday stands in the corner like a bare promise—fresh pine, good shape, no lights yet. Mia stops, presses a palm to her chest. “Okay, he can be taught.”

“I don’t do artificial,” I say. “Smell matters.” Then I pause. “Unless the scent triggers a migraine. Shit, I didn’t think of that.”

“Hey, it’s all good. Pine is not a problem for me. Promise.” She leans in and inhales. “You’re forgiven for your war crimes against décor.”

I pull her to me and kiss the top of her head. “I still should have asked.”

“It’s not your job to manage my headaches,” she says. “Though admittedly, you do a better job at that than I do.”

The kettle clicks off in the kitchen. “Cocoa first or lights first?”

“Lights. Then, cocoa as a reward.”

“Incorrect,” I deadpan, already pouring water over cocoa powder. “Cocoa fuels infrastructure.”

She accepts the mug, eyes warm over the steam. “Infrastructure. You’re going to try to put the lights on in perfect Fibonacci spacing, aren’t you?”

“Only if you’d like the optimal twinkle.”

We queue up a playlist—she picks vintage crooners and exactly one pop banger that I pretend not to know—and start with the lights. I hand her the first strand and circle the base of the tree. She tries to follow my precise pattern for three branches before abandoning me and freestyle wrapping her side with cheerful loops.

“Anarchy,” I say, amused despite myself.

“Festive zeal,” she counters. “Consider it… asymmetrical balance.”

I step in behind her to rescue a dark pocket, and she elbows me lightly. “I can do it.”

“I know,” I say, steadying the strand as she reaches. My hand instinctively finds her waist. “Just keeping it architecturally sound.”