Chapter 13
No sooner did I leave Midnight Velour Intimates than I got a text from Killion asking if I’d be willing to meet at the Cottage Grill for dinner.
He’s working late and said he’d shoot right over. A hot date with the hottest detective this side of the North Pole? Of course, I couldn’t say no.
Evening settles over the Brambleberry Bay Country Club like a cocktail being poured slowly, and the Cottage Grill hums with sophisticated dinner conversation that only happens when people have too much money and too little to worry about.
The scent of garlic butter and rosemary mingles with pine garlands and cinnamon candles, while soft jazz plays underneath the gentle clink of crystal glasses and silver cutlery.
Twinkle lights cast everything in their cheery warmth, and the fireplace crackles merrily in the corner, surrounded by enough poinsettias to supply a small greenhouse.
After that traumatic educational experience, I need to cleanse my mind with normal social interaction, Cricket announces from her tote bag as we enter the restaurant. My poor innocent eyes have seen things that can’t be unseen. I couldn’t be happier than to be back at the club.
Plus, the kitchen staff always drops treats! Rookie adds with his tail already wagging at maximum velocity. And there will always be other dogs to play with! This place is like the dog park but with better collars.
“You’re not wrong,” I whisper. “And some of those collars are diamond-studded.”
Who are we kidding? They all are.
Oh Rookie, your priorities are disturbingly simple, Cricket meows down at him. But I suppose visiting civilized pooches is far better than watching Hattie shop for... those things.
Killion isn’t here yet, but I spot Bunny immediately, and she’s glowing with the radiance of a naughty Disney princess or someone who’s discovered the fountain of youth.
She’s tucked into a corner booth with a hot pink cocktail keeping her company, and her blonde curls bounce with every animated gesture as she waves me over.
“Hattie! Perfect timing!” she calls out, causing several other diners to turn and stare. Bunny has never met a volume setting she couldn’t exceed.
I slide into the booth across from her, Cricket’s tote bag nestled beside me while Rookie immediately begins his social rounds, visiting every table where he’s likely to score a snack, a scratch, or a belly rub.
“You look unreasonably pleased with yourself,” I say. “Do we need to secure legal counsel?”
“Only if there’s a prenup involved,” Bunny sighs dreamily. “I’m in love.”
“Again?” I can’t help but muse. Bunny falls in love approximately every three weeks, usually with men who have more charm than sense and occasionally more criminal records than assets.
“This one is different,” she insists, her blue eyes sparkling with a questionable fervor. “He’s sophisticated, charming, and he has the most incredible beard.”
“Beard?”
She nods. “It’s white and fluffy, like fresh snow.” She fans herself with her menu. “And those eyes! They twinkle like Christmas morning.”
“Bunny, please tell me you’re not dating someone’s grandfather.”
“He might be.” She shrugs as if she’s indifferent. “But who cares? The man is confident enough to wear a red suit.”
I blink over at my blonde bestie. “You’re dating Santa Claus?”
“A Santa impersonator,” she corrects as if that makes it better.
“Think upscale mall Santa, not sketchy costume rental. He does private parties, corporate events, the works. He’s very professional and very exclusive.
” She wiggles her shoulders as she says it.
“His name is Nicholas, which is obviously meant to be. We met at the Christmas market downtown. He was doing photos with children, and I just couldn’t resist sitting on his lap. ”
“I’ll bet,” I say, taking a sip of her glowing pink cocktail just to get the visual out of my mind.
This explains so much about Bunny’s mating rituals, Cricket says. She’s always been on the hunt for someone who gives good gifts.
I nod at my cute kitty because she may have hit it on the nose.
“By the way,” Bunny continues, pulling out her phone and scrolling through what looks to be a professional Santa portfolio, “I can book him for Christmas Eve if you like. For the gala. Imagine how perfect it would be—Santa arriving at the Glittering Gratitude Gala and Champagne Charity Spectacular with me as his naughty plus-one.”
“That would be something,” I say, considering this for exactly half a second. At this point, I’m so overwhelmed with event planning that I’d probably agree to hire trained circus monkeys if it meant one less thing to coordinate.
“Why not?” I muse. “It’s just one more thing off my plate.”
Peyton can’t complain. In fact, she has no say in anything at the moment—which is sort of the way I like it.
“What could go wrong with Santa at a Christmas party?” I say with a laugh and Bunny’s eyes flit to the fire.
If Hattie only knew the plans I have for that man once he sets foot in the club. Let’s just say I’m about to check off a heck of a lot of boxes on my own personal naughty list, and with the head elf himself.
Wonderful.
Bunny claps her hands together. “Thank you, Hattie. He’ll be so excited. He takes his Santa work very seriously—it’s a lot like method acting, you know.”
Before I can ask what exactly method acting involves for a Santa impersonator, Killion appears at our table, making an entrance that causes every female diner in the restaurant to suddenly remember they need to check their lipstick.
He’s still in his work clothes—dark suit, badge visible, that particular brand of authority that makes him look like he could solve crimes and break hearts with equal efficiency.
“Ladies,” he says, sliding into the booth beside me and landing a kiss on my lips. “Long day?”
“You have no idea,” I tell him. “I spent it in Edison.”
Bunny’s phone buzzes. She glances at it and her entire face transforms into the expression of a woman who has just received extremely promising news.
“It’s Nicholas,” she breathes, already in motion, scooping up her phone with one hand while the other waves a breezy goodbye.
She drops a kiss on my cheek, then points at Killion.
“Feed her. If she’s been to Edison, then she’s been through an ordeal.
” Then she’s gone in a cloud of romantic anticipation, the restaurant door swinging shut behind her like punctuation on the world’s fastest exit.
He turns my way with a smile that does something completely unreasonable to my pulse and we settle into the comfortable quiet of two people who have learned how to exist in the same space without filling every inch of it with words.
The jazz plays. The candles flicker. Somewhere across the restaurant, a cork pops.
“So,” he says finally. “Edison.”
I knew we’d get back there.
“Who, what, where, when, and why?” He frowns for a moment, making him twice as comely as he already is.
I quickly fill him in on all of the above.
“We were perfectly safe,” I say, before he can say anything else. “We talked to some people, gathered some information, and left. It was all very civilized.”
“You took Peyton and two octogenarians to Edison to interrogate a murder suspect.”
“Investigate,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
“Hattie.” He’s frowning again—and again, so hot.
“We learned things,” I say. “Useful things. Millie Ashford had her recipes stolen by Seraphina and her business was already struggling. That’s a motive, and a means—”
“I know what motive and means are,” he says, but there’s no real edge to it.
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear with the kind of casual intimacy that still catches me off guard sometimes.
“I love that you care about this. I love that you’re good at it.
” His hand drops to mine. “I hate that you keep putting yourself in rooms with people who might be killers.”
“I had Cricket,” I say. “And Rookie.”
That’s correct, Cricket confirms. I was extremely vigilant.
And I was on the lookout for French snacks, Rookie adds with a soft bark as he reappears.
I quickly translate.
“Incredibly reassuring,” Killion says, and means none of it, but he’s smiling now, which means the worst of it is over.
We order drinks we probably won’t finish. We talk about the case, about Millie and her stolen recipes and her failing bakery, about Vivienne and her Edison boutique that has no business being as expensive as it is, about Seraphina and the very long list of people who had reason to want her quiet.
Then we circle back to the Christmas trees that we somehow still don’t have.
“We’re never getting a tree,” I say.
“We’re getting a tree,” he says.
“When?”
“Soon.” He winces because it came out sounding like a question.
“You said soon three days ago.”
“I meant a different soon.” He glances at the shopping bag beside my purse. Midnight Velour Intimates printed across the side in fancy script, sitting there like a question nobody’s asked yet.
“Interesting bag,” he says.
“It was an interesting day,” I say.
The candle between us flickers, and it’s safe to say things are about to get heated.
“Anything in there worth seeing?” He lifts a brow in anticipation.
“If you’re good,” I say, “I might just take you back to my place and show you.”
A predatory look in his eyes takes over as a wicked grin twitches on his lips.
He nods my way. “How about we skip dinner?” It’s more of a statement than a question.
Oh thank goodness, Cricket sighs. I thought we’d be here all night. Someone owes me a can of Fancy Beast cat food when we get home.
But the bacon— Rookie starts.
No, Cricket says.
The busboy promised—
Rookie.
Fine.
I grab my coat, Killion takes the bag, and we leave the Cottage Grill, the untouched menus, and the promise of bacon behind.
Some things are worth skipping dinner for.