“Maybe you should let Mr. McGrumpy hang some ornaments on your Christmas tree.” I press my palm against my forehead where a headache is beginning to form. “I don’t even know what that means,” I tell him with annoyance. “Maybe you should let him stuff some presents into your empty stockings. I bet he’s got a nice stocking stuffer for you, too,” Rudy says, still dancing. “Meow, baby.” “Okay,” I groan, rubbing circles into my aching temples. “I love you, but please shut up. This is not helpful. I have a real job to do.”
Rudy has gone to the gutter and is overly suggestive
