Chapter 9
By the time Peyton and I barreled down the hall, it was too late—Vivienne Velour was long gone. Either she had left the building or she took an unfortunate series of left turns. Willoughby Hall is essentially a nightmare version of Narnia once you get lost.
The scent of pine from my neighbor’s wood-burning fireplace mingles with the salty ocean air, and Christmas lights twinkle from cabin windows like fallen stars scattered across the gravel.
It’s that magical hour when the world turns soft and golden, and even the crunch of footsteps on frost sounds like Christmas morning.
I’m hardly out of Ginger’s cab when I spot Killion emerging from his own cabin next door, looking unfairly good for a man who’s been working a murder scene all day.
He’s carrying a bag that smells suspiciously like General Tso’s chicken and wearing that grin that makes my knees weak.
“Please tell me that’s not another frozen dinner for one,” I call out as he approaches my front door.
“Do I look like someone who eats frozen dinners?”
“You look like someone who owns exactly three plates and considers cereal a food group.” It’s all true and he knows it.
He laughs, and the sound makes something warm unleash in my chest. “For your information, I own four plates. And I brought enough Chinese food to feed a small army, assuming that army includes two very spoiled pets.”
Cricket drops out of the cab first, as she always does, with the air of a cat who has somewhere more important to be and is generously allowing the rest of us to keep up.
Rookie bolts out behind her in a blur of golden fur and wagging tail, nearly flattening me before he catches Killion’s scent and changes course entirely.
Food, Rookie announces to no one, nose already working overtime. Good food. Hot food. Food that is definitely not whatever Hattie was going to make tonight.
He’s not wrong, Cricket mewls, falling into step beside me with her tail raised in quiet approval. I could smell that from the driveway.
“I’m standing right here,” I tell them both.
We know, Cricket says.
Dad’s home! Wait, is that sweet and sour pork I smell? And egg rolls? Oh my goodness, Christmas came early! His tail is going so fast it’s creating a small hurricane behind him.
I unlock the door and we’re immediately greeted by the sight of my tiny A-frame cabin, which currently looks like Christmas exploded in the most wonderful way possible.
Garlands of evergreen snake along the exposed ceiling beams, twinkle lights cast everything in warm amber, and miniature Christmas trees occupy every flat surface that isn’t already claimed by wrapped presents or holiday candles.
My black-and-white checkered curtains sport festive red ribbon tie-backs, and the braided rug that takes up most of my floor space has been joined by a smaller holiday-themed accent rug by the door.
“Holy Christmas overload,” Killion says, pausing in the doorway to take it all in. “Did you rob Santa’s workshop?”
“I prefer to think of it as embracing the season with enthusiasm.”
I may have added to my decoration collection since the last time he was over, which would have been a scant three days ago.
“It looks like the North Pole had a yard sale in here.”
“Well, trust me, none of this stuff was cheap. But ’tis the season. I like to think of it as doing my part to boost the economy.”
“Singlehandedly,” he says, tucking a kiss to my temple and wrapping his arms around me from behind.
Cricket winds around Killion’s legs, purring like a tiny motor. You brought the good food. This earns you approximately fifteen minutes of affection before I go back to pretending you don’t exist.
“Ooh,” I muse. “You’ve impressed Cricket with your choice of cuisine. Smooth move.”
“I do try,” he says as a laugh rumbles in his chest.
Rookie abandons all pretense of dignity and launches himself at Killion, who somehow manages to catch him without dropping our dinner. I missed you! It’s been at least sixteen weeks since I saw you last! Did you bring me anything? Can I have some chicken? What about the rice? I love rice!
Mr. Jolly Beary observes this reunion from his spot on the sofa, looking slightly lopsided and completely unbothered by the madness. Okay, I’ll admit to the fact it’s hard for me to stop personifying him because Cricket and Rookie do it so seamlessly.
“Are you up for dinner first, then getting our Christmas trees?” Killion asks, setting the food on my kitchen counter, which is roughly the size of a small tree stump.
I grin at him. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
He moves closer, and I catch a hint of his cologne mixed with winter air and something that’s purely him. The space between us shrinks to nothing, and I’m thinking how perfect this moment is when he leans down and plants a wet one on me that makes all of my holiday dreams come true.
This never ends, does it? Cricket meows with the exasperation of a chaperone at a high school dance. And before serving us dinner? The audacity never ends either.
But Killion just got here! And I can smell sweet and sour pork! My priorities are food first, romance second! Rookie whines, his nose still pointed toward the takeout bag.
I pull back slightly, laughing. “I think we’re being judged by our audience.”
“They’ll live,” Killion murmurs, his hands finding my waist as if it were their home.
The kiss that follows is the sort that makes you forget your own name, let alone that you have two very opinionated pets and a bag of rapidly cooling Chinese food waiting for attention.
It tastes like winter and promises and the future that makes my heart do dangerous things, like forgetting how to beat and then beating way too fast all at the same time.
When we finally break apart, I’m slightly breathless and completely distracted from the fact that Cricket is now sitting directly on the takeout bag.
Food. Now. Romance later. These are the rules, she yowls, her green eyes narrowing with the threat.
“What kept you so busy today?” Killion asks, reaching around Cricket to rescue our dinner. “I dropped by the Cottage House for a late lunch and couldn’t find you anywhere.”
“Oh, you know, the usual. Chasing mysterious lingerie designers through the halls of Willoughby Hall like some twisted game of hide and seek.”
His eyebrows climb. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“I wish I were. Vivienne Velour disappeared faster than my willpower around holiday cookies.”
“Vivienne Velour? Isn’t she the designer of those barely-there outfits that cost a fortune?”
“The very one. Diva Divine Temptation pointed the finger right at her.”
“So you also spoke to Diva?” He dips his chin as he takes a moment to inspect me.
I make a face. “Yes, but more importantly, I bought a lot of lingerie.”
Killion pauses in the middle of unpacking lo mein, and his eyes fall on the growing pile of wrapped packages in the corner of my living room, and something shifts in his expression.
“Is that what all those packages are for?” he asks, and his voice carries a note of hope that makes my heart squeeze. “Me?” He winks my way as he says it.
I bat my eyelashes at him with a touch too much exaggerated innocence. “Stick to the nice list and I’ll see. Right now, they’re for Santa.”
“I’ve been very, very nice,” he says, moving closer with a predatory grin.
“Nice? That’s debatable,” I tease, backing up until I hit the kitchen counter. “I seem to remember you arresting me on our first date.”
“That was foreplay.”
“That was a misunderstanding.”
“Same thing.”
He’s close enough now that I can see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, and I’m seriously considering abandoning dinner altogether when he suddenly stops moving. His expression shifts, and I recognize that look—it’s the one he gets when his detective brain kicks into high gear.
“Wait a minute,” he says, stepping back slightly. “You said Peyton was there? Hanging out with you?”
I feel my stomach drop a little. “Well, hanging out might be a strong term—”
“Hattie.” His eyes narrow with the focus of a man who solves crimes for a living. “She doesn’t hang out with you. She can hardly tolerate you on a good day. She wants you to investigate, doesn’t she?”
I give a nervous laugh that sounds forced even to my own ears. “Whatever would she want that for? We all know that’s your job.”
But he’s not buying it. His brows draw together in that way that means he’s putting pieces together, and I have the sinking feeling I’m not going to like his conclusions.
“Did she ask you to clear her name?”
“Now why would you think a thing like that?” Because it happens to be true.
“Because I know Peyton Blakey,” he counters. “And I know you, and I know that the only reason she’d seek you out is if she’s desperate enough to ask for help.”
Peyton is so predictable, Cricket mewls while guarding the Chinese food. The female is clearly in trouble and needs Hattie’s assistance. It’s pack behavior. And truthfully, Hattie, you really are the only person who could help her.
Are we still getting dinner? Rookie asks hopefully. Because all this talking is making me hungry, and that egg roll is calling my name.
“Hattie.” Killion’s voice takes on that official tone that means Detective Maddox has entered the building. “I need you to stay away from this investigation.”
“Oh, come on.” I give his ribs a quick tweak and he jerks slightly. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Seraphina was strangled with a string of Christmas lights.” He tips his head as he says it.
“Well, that’s one way to get in the holiday spirit.” I can’t help but cringe as I say it.
“Do you know what that tells me?” He’s not amused by my attempt at levity.
“That the killer has a twisted sense of seasonal decoration?”
“No.” His expression grows serious, and something cold settles in my stomach. “It means the killer is impulsive and volatile. Someone who uses whatever’s handy, whatever’s available in the moment. And that makes them unpredictable.”
The words hang in the air between us, and suddenly the Christmas twinkle lights around my cabin don’t seem quite so cheerful.
“You could be next,” he says quietly.
The silence stretches long enough for Cricket to start making irritated sounds about dinner being delayed, and for Rookie to whimper softly at the tension in the room.
I clear my throat. “So what you’re saying is, I should stay home and bake cookies while you go out and solve crimes like some sort of one-man Christmas crime-fighting unit?” I’m almost teasing. Almost.
“Hattie,” he offers a mournful smile, “I’m saying you should let the professionals handle the dangerous parts.”
“And I’m saying that’s rich coming from someone who’s been letting me help solve cases since practically the day we met.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“You weren’t dating me then. I wasn’t terrified of losing you.”
The admission hangs between us, raw and honest, and it does something dangerous to my resolve. But I can see where this conversation is heading, and I know from experience that the only way to defuse Killion when he gets into protective mode is with direct action.
So I kiss him.
It’s a kiss that says I hear you and I’m not going anywhere and please stop worrying all at once. It also appears to short-circuit whatever very reasonable argument he had lined up, which honestly was the entire goal.
When I pull back, his eyes are slightly glazed and his breathing has changed.
“That’s cheating,” he murmurs against my lips.
“That’s strategy.”
Finally, some sense, Cricket announces. Now can we eat? I’m wasting away to nothing over here.
I love when Killion and Hattie kiss, Rookie sighs happily. It means everyone’s happy and more likely to share food.
We end up eating very little Chinese food, partly because Cricket and Rookie make off with most of the chicken, and partly because we keep getting distracted by each other in the most delicious ways.
The conversation about the investigation gets shelved. Replaced with far more pressing matters, like Douglas fir versus Fraser fir, and whether Rookie can be trusted not to body-slam a Christmas tree out of pure holiday enthusiasm. Spoiler? He cannot.
By the time we’re ready to head out to the tree farm, the takeout containers are mostly empty, the pets are contentedly napping in a food coma, and I’ve successfully avoided making any promises about staying out of Peyton’s business.
“You know what?” Killion says, pulling me closer as Christmas lights twinkle around us. “Maybe we should postpone the tree hunting.”
“Oh really?” I bite back a smile. “And what did you have in mind instead?”
His grin is pure trouble. “I was thinking we could stay in and practice some more of that unique strategy you demonstrated earlier.”
“That’s the best idea you’ve had all evening, Detective.”
“I have my moments.”
And just like that, our perfectly planned evening of Christmas tree shopping goes sideways—in a good way.
The trees can wait. Tonight we’ve got takeout cartons everywhere, Christmas lights doing their best to make my tiny cabin look magical, and Cricket and Rookie committing poultry crimes in plain sight.
Honestly? This feels like a better plan anyway.
Besides, this is Brambleberry Bay. Plans don’t fail here—they just get… creatively rerouted by way of a hot detective’s lips.