Chapter 15 #2
“But the best part was when she made some snide comment about my ‘theatrical’ approach to marketing, and he said that turning a crisis into a profit opportunity while maintaining customer loyalty took real skill.”
“Stop it,” Bizzy gasps. “He said that?”
“He said that. And then when I mentioned the Halloween expansion plans, his whole face lit up as if I’d just solved world hunger. Started asking about projected revenue and customer demographics like he actually cares about my success.”
The man has excellent taste in business partners, Fish observes approvingly. Also, in treat-dispensing humans.
“Oh honey.” Bizzy shakes her head with a grin that could melt every chocolate cookie on that platter. “You are in so much trouble. The good kind of trouble, but still trouble.”
“Why am I in trouble?”
“Because you’re describing a man who sees you, appreciates you, defends you against family criticism, and is genuinely interested in your dreams and goals. That’s not just attraction, Josie. That’s the foundation for something real.”
My heart does a little tap dance at that thought. “You think so?”
“I know so. And judging by the way you light up when you talk about him, I’d say the feeling is mutual.”
So let me get this straight, Sherlock woofs, his voice carrying the weary tone of a cute pooch who’s heard too many improbable stories. You two found another body. At a baking symposium. And now there’s a fancy poodle involved?
Her name is Cupcake, Chip announces with the kind of reverence usually reserved for discussing premium tuna. And she’s magnificent. Like a cotton candy sculpture that learned to walk and developed opinions about petit fours.
Fish’s tail twitches with barely contained disdain. She’s a D-O-G, Chip. A pampered, rhinestone-wearing, probably-eats-from-crystal-bowls D-O-G.
A beautiful, sophisticated, well-groomed D-O-G, Chip corrects dreamily. Did I mention she smells like vanilla and good decisions?
You’ve mentioned it approximately seventeen times, Fish replies with the patience of someone explaining basic mathematics to a particularly slow toddler. We get it. You’re smitten with the circus poodle.
“They met during all this symposium chaos,” I explain to Sherlock. “Chip defended her honor against the feral cat army, and now he thinks he’s starring in his own romantic comedy.” I give him a quick scratch because of it.
It was very gallant, Fish admits grudgingly. Though completely unnecessary. We could have handled the situation with our natural feline superiority.
Natural feline superiority is overrated when a lady’s honor is at stake, Chip declares with the righteousness of someone who’s clearly been watching too many old movies, and may quite possibly be in love.
Bizzy glances at the grandfather clock in the corner and stretches. “Well, as much as I’m enjoying this romance strategy session, I should probably head home before Jasper sends out a search party. He gets anxious when I’m out past nine on weeknights.”
She stands, scooping up Fish, who settles into her arms with regal dignity. Sherlock rises and stretches, his freckled coat rippling in the firelight, and we exchange goodnights.
“But Josie?” Bizzy pauses at the library entrance. “For what it’s worth, I think you deserve someone who looks at you the way Detective Dreamboat looked at you today. And I think you’re brave enough to find out where it leads.”
Goodnight, Orange One, Fish calls to Chip. Try not to do anything too embarrassing while I’m gone.
No promises, Chip replies cheerfully. But I’ll do my best.
For what it’s worth, Sherlock adds as they head toward the door, Jasper’s instincts about character are usually solid. And he likes this detective.
“Thanks,” I say, surprised by how much that means to me. “See you tomorrow.”
After they leave, the library feels both cozier and larger, if that’s possible. The fire continues to crackle, casting dancing shadows across the book spines, and I curl deeper into my chair with Chip purring in my lap like a furry engine of contentment.
I’m about to get up myself when my phone buzzes against my hip, and I pull it out to find the family group chat exploding with messages.
McKenna: Mom! Emma is amazing! She’s helping us coordinate the new daily parade schedule!
Riley: We’re coming to the park tomorrow to make it happen! It’s going to be SPOOK-TACULAR!
McKenna: Emma has SO many ideas. She’s like a business genius wrapped in college student energy.
Riley: Also, fair warning—Jack is coming too. For moral support. And maybe to help with the technical stuff.
McKenna: Also, for the record, Jack is MINE.
Riley: Dream on, sister. I saw him first.
McKenna: You literally met him thirty minutes before I did.
Riley: Thirty minutes is thirty minutes. That’s practically a lifetime in college dating terms.
I laugh, typing back.
Josie: You both have my permission to take over parade planning. Emma sounds like exactly what we need. Just try not to start a sister war over Detective Dreamboat Jr.
McKenna: His name is JACK, and he’s not Detective Dreamboat Jr.
Riley: No, Detective Dreamboat Jr. is actually perfect. I’m using that.
Before I can respond, Clyde’s name appears on the screen with a message that makes my blood pressure spike.
Clyde: Who is Jack? What’s going on there, Josie?
McKenna: Jack is Mom’s new boyfriend’s son.
Riley: Yeah, Dad. Mom’s got a BOYFRIEND now. A hot detective boyfriend with excellent biceps and access to both bullets and handcuffs.
My phone immediately starts buzzing with an incoming call from Clyde, which I decline with the satisfaction of someone who’s finally discovered the joy of the “ignore” button.
Clyde: You have a BOYFRIEND?! This has gone far enough, Josie. Knock this off! You’re ruining our family!
I stare at the message for a moment, then start laughing. Full belly laughs that echo through the library and make Chip look at me with concern.
“Ruining our family?” I read the message out loud to Chip. “The man who was caught doing unspeakable things with a yoga instructor in our guest bathroom is worried about me ruining our family?”
The audacity is breathtaking, Chip observes. Should we alert the authorities about this level of delusion?
I’m about to type back something appropriately sarcastic when my phone buzzes again. This time, the name on the screen makes my heart do a little tap dance—Detective Dreamboat.
“Oh no,” I mutter, realizing I still haven’t changed his contact information. “Please tell me he doesn’t see I have him saved as Detective Dreamboat if he ever looks at my phone.”
The message itself is simple and somehow makes my stomach flip.
Detective Dreamboat: Hey. Hope you made it back to the inn safely. Sorry that I had to leave so abruptly during dinner—wanted to apologize for that. Rain check on getting to finish our conversation?
My mouth goes dry. “He’s asking for a do-over.”
Answer him, Chip commands. But play it cool. Don’t seem too eager.
I type.
Josie: Made it safely, thanks to my feline security detail. And yes, to that rain check—I’d like that.
I hit send before I can overthink it, then immediately panic. “Was that too casual? Not casual enough? Should I have been more specific?”
My phone buzzes again almost immediately.
Detective Dreamboat: Tomorrow night? I promise not to get called away this time.
I stare at the message, a ridiculous smile spreading across my face. I type back instantly.
Josie: Tomorrow night sounds perfect
And hit send before I can change my mind.
His response is immediate.
Detective Dreamboat: Looking forward to it. Sweet dreams, Josie.
You’ve got that goofy expression again, Chip mewls with a sigh. The one that suggests higher brain functions have been temporarily suspended.
“I’m afraid that happened the day I met him,” I say, but I’m still smiling as I stare at my phone.
I gaze into the fire as it pops and sends sparks up the chimney, Chip purring in my lap like a furry engine of contentment.
“Tomorrow, I have a do-over date with Detective Dreamboat, the girls are taking over parade planning, and we still have a killer to catch. Just your normal stuff to do on a Friday.”
Nothing about our life is normal, Chip observes with satisfaction. But it’s certainly never boring.
“Stick around,” I tell him, settling deeper into my chair. “Something tells me this is just the beginning.”