Page 13 of Dark Christmas

My heart skips a beat, and I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks again. “Well,” I stammer, searching for something to say, “I never would’ve guessed you had a thing for elves.”

He chuckles, that deep, rumbling sound that makes my skin tingle. “I didn’t. Until I saw you dressed up as one.”

I blush harder, biting my lip as I mumble, “Thanks,” unsure what else to say. I can feel the weight of his gaze, as if he’s undressing me with his eyes, and while there’s a part of me that enjoys it way more than I should, another part of me is panicking. I’m not sure I’m ready for where this conversation’s heading.

So, I move, shifting slightly as if to make my exit. “Well, I should probably—”

“Stay for dinner,” he interrupts, stopping me mid-sentence. His words hang in the air, and I can’t tell if he’s being polite or if there’s something more behind the offer.

“Just dinner. I’d like to get to know you.”

I take another sip of my drink, trying to sort through the mess in my head. The tension, the flirting, the way my body responds to him.

Should I stay?

“Sure. Dinner sounds nice.”

“Wonderful,” he says with a smooth smile, then gestures for me to follow. He heads out of the office, and I follow, empty glass inhand.

As I walk through his house, I take in the space around me. It’s all clean lines and minimalist decor, but there are little flourishes here and there—classic art pieces on the walls, a few sculptures that look way too expensive to be just for show.

There’s a sense of control, of purpose, in every part of his home. There’s no sign of anyone else living here.

We enter the kitchen, and I’m once again struck by how spotless and spacious it is. White countertops, stainless steel appliances—everything looks like it’s barely been used. He motions for me to sit at the island while he gets started on dinner.

“Won’t take long,” he assures me. “It’s a classic beef stroganoff, my personal favorite.”

I watch as he moves around the kitchen with precision, grabbing ingredients from the fridge and setting them on the counter. His movements are confident and practiced.

“So,” I ask, curiosity finally getting the best of me, “where are you from?”

“Russia,” he says, and I catch the faintest trace of an accent in his words. Just a hint, like a whisper from the past.

I watch as he starts prepping the ingredients, chopping onions, and tossing butter into the pan with a casual ease. “What’re you doing there?” I ask, more curious than I’d like to admit. He doesn’t mind the question, though. In fact, he seems to enjoy it.

“Making the sauce,” he says, glancing at me with a half-smile. “Onions, garlic, some sour cream to bring it together. Nothing too complicated.”

I tilt my head. “I’m a baker. I like to watch how other culinary aficionados work.”

He chuckles, flipping the onions in the pan like it’s second nature. “You’ll have to grade my technique, then. But don’t expect too much—I wouldn’t call myself a chef. Barely an amateur, really.”

I watch him for a second, his movements far too smooth, too effortless, for someone who claims to be an amateur. He’s not even glancing at a recipe—just working from memory, like someone who’s done this a hundred times. He grabs a knife, spinning it in his hand with a quick, precise flourish before chopping the mushrooms.

The control he has over that blade is almosttooskilled.

I raise an eyebrow. “Muscle memory?”

He meets my gaze, holding it for a moment longer than necessary, his lips twitching into a knowing smirk. “Exactly. Comes in handy.”

Maybe I’m being crazy, but there’s something about the way he handles that knife that tells me he knows how to use it for more than just cooking.

The kitchen is starting to smell incredible, the rich aroma of butter, garlic, and onions filling the air. My eyes drift to Melor’s huge, powerful hands, the way they move so confidently as he works. I start imagining what those hands would feel like on my body, sliding between my legs.

Before I get too carried away, he glances over his shoulder at me. “Would you grab a bottle of wine from the pantry?” he asks, gesturing toward a door on the far side of the kitchen.

I nod, sliding off the stool. “Sure, but full disclosure—I know nothing about wine.”

He chuckles, wiping his hands before following me into the oversized pantry. The space is almost as big as my entire kitchen, several shelves lined with expensive bottles. I glance around, trying not to look completely lost.