Page 92 of Never Kiss a Krampus

“She gets that from you.”

“I’m pretty sure the ability to summon magical beings makes her more your daughter than mine.”

“She hasn’t summoned anything yet.”

“Give her time. She’s only three months old.”

He gave me a look that suggested he found this logic both sound and slightly horrifying. “I’m going to need to ward the apartment, aren’t I?”

“Probably.”

“And potentially the entire shop.”

“Definitely the shop.”

He sighed, but fondness softened it into something warm. “Our daughter is going to be a handful.”

“Our daughter is going to be amazing.” I patted the bed beside me. “Now bring her here before you pace a groove in the floor.”

He settled back onto the bed, arranging himself so our daughter could sleep safely between us. She made a small sound of contentment, surrounded by her parents and completely unaware that one of them was an ancient creature of judgment and punishment.

Or maybe she knew exactly what he was, and loved him anyway.

Children were wise like that.

Jingle Bells appeared in the doorway, surveyed the family arrangement, and leaped up onto the foot of the bed with the air of one claiming his rightful territory. He circled twice, then settled into his loaf formation, eyes half-lidded but alert.

“We really did it,” I said softly, watching snow fall past the window. “We saved the shop. Built a family. Made a life out of chaos and magic and absolutely terrible timing.”

“Terrible timing?” Bastian’s tail curled around my ankle beneath the blankets.

“I summoned you two weeks before Christmas. During the busiest retail season of the year. While trying to save a failing business and plan a town event.” I smiled at him. “If that’s not terrible timing, I don’t know what is.”

“Hmm.” He considered this. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it was exactly the right moment. When you needed me most. When I was ready to be needed.”

“Getting philosophical in your old age?”

“I’ve always been old. I’m just getting better at appreciating the moments that matter.”

Our daughter sighed in her sleep, one tiny hand reaching up to catch at nothing. Bastian caught it gently, letting her grasp his finger. She held on tight, even in dreams.

“Next year,” I said, “we should do something special for the Extravaganza.”

“Next year you’re delegating half the work to the community volunteers who keep offering.”

“But—”

“No.” He gave me the look. The one that suggested arguing would be futile. “You’re not baking a thousand cookies alone while trying to manage a three-month-old.”

“She’ll be fifteen months by then.”

“Which means she’ll be mobile. And curious. And likely experimenting with whatever magical abilities she inherits from me.” He raised an eyebrow. “You’ll be lucky if the shop survives her, let alone a baking marathon.”

He had a point.

“Fine. I’ll delegate. But I’m still making the gingerbread cookies.”

“Obviously. No one else can make them properly.”