Shimmer by Darynda Jones Page A

over my nerve endings. He felt it, too, and smiled from behind his hand.
    “Fire away,” he added.
    Suh-weet. This evening was so much more awesome than yesterday’s in which I found myself running from a knife-wielding naked lady screaming, “Death to all paupers!”
    Seriously, how bad could paupers be?
    “Okay,” I said, propping my elbows on my knees, “what was it like growing up in hell?”
    “Yes.”
    I nodded and wrote down his answer, not wanting to misquote a single word, a single syllable. Reporters could get in big trouble for that crap. “Great. Okay, on that note, what was it like having the first fallen angel as your father?”
    “Sometimes.”
    I bent my head to write again.
    “Mm-hm, and what is your aversion, exactly, to Christmas?”
    “Whole wheat.”
    I kept writing, my hopes diminishing entirely. It was my own fault really. He did say he would answer anything I asked. He didn’t say he’d answer honestly or sincerely. One day I would learn.
    Deciding to play along, I looked back up at him, peered into his eyes, and said, “That was deep. I’m touched.”
    One corner of his mouth tilted seductively. “I can touch you much deeper than that if you’ll let me.”
    My heart fibrillated in my chest. Just in case, I scanned his apartment for a defibrillator.
    His lids narrowed. “This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with a certain box I found outside my door this morning.”
    “What?” I said aghast, selling it, baby. Selling it. “What box?” Appalled, I tossed my pen onto my notepad. “I’ve never seen a box in my life.”
    He blindsided me with this gorgeous deadpan thing. I hadn’t expected it.
    I sat stunned a moment before snapping back. “Okay, fine, let’s say, for argument’s sake, there was a box of indeterminate size and shape seen in the general vicinity of your threshold. Did you open it?”
    “I thought we agreed.”
    “We did. I swear.” I did the Boy Scouts sign, because nothing screamed honesty better than the Boy Scouts sign. “But it’s not fair that you can get me something for Christmas and I can’t get you anything.”
    He lifted an unconcerned shoulder. “But we agreed.”
    I rolled my eyes. “We only agreed because a naked lady with a knife mistook me for a pauper, and I needed backup. That chick was like a triathlete.”
    “Doesn’t matter. A deal’s a deal.”
    “Ugh.” I threw myself back onto the empty space on his sofa. “Reyes, why? The true joy of Christmas is in the giving. If you don’t let me give you a gift, you’re sucking all the joy out of the whole season like a fuel-injected, twin turbo Hoover.”
    He laughed softly. “Not my problem.”
    He had a point. And I understood why he didn’t do Christmas. I really did. His childhood was the stuff of nightmares. He was raised by a monster, and I was fairly certain his Christmases were just like every other day of his year: Horrific. But I wanted him to experience the joy of Christmas. The pleasure of opening a gift from someone who loved him more than life. Not that my gift really screamed that, but still. It was the thought that counted.
    “Fine,” he said, an acquiescent quality in his voice, and I bound up off the sofa, hope welling inside me. “I may have opened the box.”
    I clasped my hands together. “And?”
    “And . . .” He took a moment to come up with the right words. “And, you’ll have to see for yourself.”
    My gaze darted to his crotch so fast it almost gave me whiplash. “Really? Like, right now?”
    His lips parted slightly in anticipation. “No time like the present.”
    One elbow was still propped on the arm of the sofa. He took his other arm and draped it over the back, his drink dangling from his hand. And there he sat, like a supermodel at a photo shoot. The image was so powerfully male, so raw and electrifying, it caused a cauldron of heat to pool in my abdomen.
    Taking a deep, calming breath, I fought the urge to tear into him. To rip off