Page 18 of The Christmas Book Flood

TEN

Anders lifted Elea up, hands about her waist, and held her steady while she fastened the garland over the curtain rods.

“And that ,” he said, sliding sideways so she could hook the greenery in the middle, then again on the other end, “is why we must be sure to get all the decorations up before Gluggagaegir comes tonight. He would be very disappointed if he peeked in the window and didn’t see colorful things!

So disappointed, he’d forget to leave you your gift and would mope his way back to his boring gray cave. ”

Elea fastened the end and grinned at him over her shoulder. “Then it’s a good thing we got all the book orders sent out this morning, so we had time this evening.”

It made him smile every time he thought about it—every household in Iceland, opening books for Christmas.

Every family exclaiming, sharing, trading, reading.

They were a storytelling people—from the ancient epics to the medieval sagas to the books being written today.

From the fish stories his brothers told to the exaggerated schoolyard tales of his nephews and nieces.

From his own children’s stories to the brilliant novels he helped edit.

He lowered Elea back to the ground and said another prayer for another delivery—that when he got back to his flat tonight, there’d be a package from Tandri waiting for him.

He’d given his home address for the return, unlike their usual correspondence, which all went through the Story Society.

But he couldn’t risk having part of Tatiana’s gift delivered there, not with how often she was the one to distribute the mail.

Not that she’d know what was in it, but what if she guessed?

No, better to keep the secret.

He sneaked a glance at Tatiana, who was fitting the dowel-rod branches of her homemade Christmas tree into their holes.

Hers was about the same size as his, small enough to sit on a tabletop, easy to take apart and store away in a closet or under a bed the rest of the year.

“My mother said to be sure and tell you she’s getting a real pine tree this year.

She seems to think that will be incentive to come. ”

Oh, when she smiled at him like that, sly and teasing, it made his heart turn cartwheels. “That is good incentive. We’ve never had a real pine tree, as expensive as they are to import. I was hoping we could find some juniper boughs or heather to drape over the rods to make branches though.”

“Will you come over early on Saturday and help us get the decorations on the tree?” Elea moved over to the boxes of ornaments which were, as per tradition, still packed up.

They may put their trees together earlier, given that it usually required some patience to fit all the rods into their holes or situate whatever other handcrafted “tree” had been devised, but no one ever adorned those branches until the twenty-third.

“Then we can go to Uncle Valdi’s party.”

“That sounds like a delightful plan.” He nearly tacked on if it’s all right with your aunt , but bit his tongue. Still, he glanced again at Tatiana, and he could have sworn she’d heard the silent addition anyway, given the twinkle in her eyes.

Last night, when Elea had asked him to join their decorating party, he had said it, and Tatiana had sighed, reached for his hands, and said, “Anders, repeat after me. Tatiana always wants me to come over. I don’t need to ask her if it’s all right to accept the invitations. ”

Instead, he’d frowned, even as his fingers gripped hers. “You’ll get tired of me.”

Her eyes had positively gleamed, and she’d leaned close enough that Elea had begun giggling. “That’s not going to happen,” she’d said, voice low. Husky. The kind of whisper that had made his gaze drop to her red-painted lips.

To be sure he was hearing her right, he’d told himself.

Because he wanted to kiss her, he admitted to himself in turn, after hearing how that bald-faced lie clanged around in his conscience.

He hadn’t, of course, not with the giggling audience. And, well... perhaps too because he hadn’t dared to. As long as they were simply sharing dinners and occasionally holding hands, he could convince himself that he hadn’t ruined anything yet.

But once he kissed her, everything would change.

They wouldn’t just be friends. They couldn’t just be friends.

Which meant that when he messed everything up somehow or she grew bored of him, they couldn’t again be friends.

Right now, if she decided after her niece went home that his main charm had been as half of a babysitting team, well.

.. he’d be crushed, of course, but they could just go back to normal.

Pleasantries in the corridors and him eavesdropping on her conversations with Valdi at the coffeepot or with Helga in his own office.

Blast, but he was pathetic. It would be a wonder if she didn’t cut him loose before Christmas even came.

“Anders.” Her voice was a laugh, a chide.

He sighed. “I didn’t say it.”

“You were thinking it. I could hear you all the way over here.” She picked up another green-painted dowel. And grinned. “You’re lucky I find your insecurities so adorable.”

Adorable? He’d been called many things in life, but never that. Well, perhaps when he was a baby. He had been an extraordinarily adorable baby—he’d seen the photographs, it couldn’t be denied. But not since his curls had straightened, for sure.

Naturally, heat crept up his throat, and when she laughed, he sighed. “You’re going to be the death of me. Death by blushing. Which is so very un-heroic that my brothers will compose an un-saga to be sure people will be able to make fun of me for generations to come.”

She abandoned her tree, moved over to his side, stretched up on her tiptoes, and pressed her lips to his too-warm cheek. “I like your blushing too,” she whispered in his ear.

“Murderer,” he muttered as his cheeks flamed hotter. But he smiled. Hard not to, when she stood so close and looked up at him as if... well, as if she meant it.

Part of him whispered that she wouldn’t for long. She’d come to Mother’s on Christmas Eve and see his brothers, see all he wasn’t, and decide she’d hold out for another strapping, hero-worthy man. She’d meet someone smarter. Richer. More accomplished. A prince of a man, exactly as she deserved.

But another part told him to hold on tight. Not let her go. Fight for her, however he had to. Because she seemed to be that rare kind of person—one who saw him, understood him, and wanted to know him better instead of turning away.

She moved back to her tree, which freed his mind up enough to notice that Elea stood there grinning, another evergreen bough in her arms. “One more window,” the little one said.

“Well, we’d better get to it then. Don’t want to disappoint Gluggagaegir.”

They soon had the decorating done, and though Tatiana insisted he didn’t need to hurry off.

.. in fact, he did. He still had work to do on her painting.

So he said his farewells, made a mental note to buy enough juniper boughs for both his own tree and hers tomorrow on his way to work, and hurried home.

It only took ten minutes to walk from her flat to his, and it made him wonder why they hadn’t been all the time running into each other at the shops in addition to seeing each other at work. But they each had their separate routines, he supposed, and they hadn’t often overlapped.

No matter. Now he knew each turn to take him to her home and had an open invitation to join her for dinner, which still flabbergasted him.

How could he possibly be so fortunate?

Or maybe not so fortunate. When he opened his own door after gathering his post—there was a package from Tandri, praise the Lord—he saw a light on that he’d turned out that morning and smelled fish frying.

He toed off his shoes and deposited his things in their places as Enja darted out of his bedroom to come give his legs a purring cuddle in welcome, wondering which of his brothers had let himself in this time.

It wouldn’t be Mother cooking—she’d known he was eating at Tatiana’s again.

As for why one of his brothers—Dalmar, he saw as he moved toward the kitchen with the cat in his arms—was cooking ... “This is a first.”

Ulric was the tallest by an inch, but Dalmar didn’t need that extra inch to come across as a giant. He was still six foot five, broad enough to fill the doorframes he had to duck through, and solid muscle from his days spent hauling gear. He looked over his shoulder in a silent greeting.

Well, greeting would be stretching the meaning of the word. But in acknowledgment, anyway.

Anders leaned into the doorframe, letting Enja jump down when she squirmed for freedom.

“I do thank you for making me dinner, but I’ve already eaten.

” Which was good, because that fish looked more than a little burnt on one side.

He’d have a fine time getting that reek out in a season when he couldn’t exactly open the windows.

Even Enja agreed—she ran back out of the kitchen instead of leaping onto the counter to investigate the fish, one of her favorite treats.

Dalmar grunted. “Not for you.”

“I... see.” Except he didn’t. “And you’re cooking your own dinner, presumably, in my kitchen... why?”

His brother’s shoulders bunched up. “Because Kristin told me I wasn’t welcome to eat at my own home, and our mother took her side, and I wasn’t about to go to Ulric’s or Ram’s and have them harangue me.”

Kristin had...? Anders moved into the kitchen and elbowed his brother aside. “Let me help. You in a kitchen is about as natural as a polar bear in the tropics.” He risked a glance up the five inches to his brother’s face. “Want to talk about it?”

He wouldn’t. He never did. Dalmar wasn’t the talking kind—he was the doing kind.