Chapter 11 #2
“Classic deflection,” I counter, unwilling to be distracted by Carlotta’s spending spree, as entertaining as it might be.
“Noah, just tell us what’s going on. We’re supposed to be a team, remember?
Teams don’t keep secrets from each other, except in spy movies, and this isn’t a spy movie despite all the mysterious behavior. ”
His expression hardens, those green eyes cooling to winter forest temperatures that could freeze water. “I can’t. Not yet. Not until I figure some things out.”
“Noah—”
“I said not yet.” His tone is final, sharp enough to cut through the ambient chatter around us and a few nearby conversations. “Please, Lot. Trust me on this. I just need you to trust me.”
The waiter materializes at our table like a well-dressed sleuth, pen poised expectantly and probably hoping we’ll order something expensive enough to justify his condescending attitude. “Have we decided?”
We order in a tense silence that could be cut with one of those overpriced steak knives—wagyu steaks for the men because apparently, murder investigations require premium beef, and a steak for me, too, plus a fettuccini pasta dish because between nursing twins and Carlotta’s spending spree, my weight is the only thing I can still control, so I’m choosing not to stress about it anymore.
“Well, this is awkward,” I mutter to Noah as the waiter departs. “I feel like I’m watching a tennis match where both players refuse to hit the ball.”
“Sometimes the better strategy is waiting for your opponent to make the first move,” Everett observes as he glares at Noah.
“Is that what we’re doing now? Strategizing against each other?
” I ask, looking between them with the expression of someone who’s just realized her family dinner has turned into a tense diplomatic summit.
“Because I thought we were a team working together to solve murders and avoid prison sentences.”
Noah drains his whiskey and stands abruptly. “I need to go.”
“We just ordered,” I protest, gesturing toward the empty space in front of him that will soon hold overpriced food. “The bread basket alone probably cost more than a tank of gas.”
“Something has come up,” he says, not daring to meet my eyes. “As far as I’m concerned, I have less than a week to clear my name before Detective Morrison decides I’m his best option for closing this case. I’ve got a killer to catch, and I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Noah—”
“Let him go,” Everett says quietly as Noah strides away, cutting a path through the dining room like a shark through water.
“What the heck was that?” I demand once Noah is out of earshot.
“That,” Everett says, taking a measured sip of his whiskey, “was a man trying to protect something more important than his reputation.”
“By abandoning dinner?” I’m indignant. “The least he could do is stay for the bread basket. I bet it’s fresh out of the oven and the butter is imported from overseas.”
Everett’s lips curve into that rare, genuine smile that still makes my heart do gymnastic routines in my chest. “No, Lemon. He stated the facts. He’s trying to hunt down the killer himself to clear his name. And he doesn’t want you involved.”
“He didn’t say that part out loud.”
“He didn’t have to. It was written all over his face.”
“Since when has what Noah wants ever stopped me?” I retort. “Besides, why all the secrecy? We promised no more secrets after all the pain we’ve put one another through.”
Everett arches one perfectly groomed eyebrow. “There’s only one reason I can think of—to protect you from something he’s ashamed of.”
“Like what? His terrible taste in Elvis impersonators? His secret collection of boy band memorabilia? What could be so bad that he can’t tell me?”
Our food arrives, and I stare down at my pasta, suddenly not very hungry—a rare occurrence since the twins were born. Usually, I attack food with the single-minded determination of someone who might never eat again.
“Well, more for us,” I say, trying to inject some levity. “Though I’m charging Noah’s steak to his room. If he’s going to bail on dinner, the least he can do is pay for the privilege.”
Everett chuckles with a warm, rich sound that vibrates through me. “That’s my sweet yet slightly vindictive wife.”
“I prefer the term justice-oriented,” I correct him. “Vindictive implies I hold grudges. I merely ensure equitable outcomes.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” His blue eyes sparkle with amusement. “And here I thought you were just exceptionally good at creative payback.”
“That, too,” I admit, twirling pasta around my fork. “Remember when Carlotta borrowed my good stand mixer without asking and returned it with gum stuck in the beaters? The glitter in her hairspray was educational for all involved.”
“She sparkled for weeks,” Everett recalls. “I’d find glitter in the strangest places. Even my court briefings looked like they’d been attacked by one of Lyla Nell’s craft projects.”
“Collateral damage,” I say with a shrug. “The price of living with Carlotta—or a slightly vindictive wife.” I wink his way.
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes as the tension from Noah’s departure gradually dissipates.
Everett cuts his steak with surgical precision, each piece exactly the same size—a habit I find oddly endearing.
The man’s methodical in everything he does, whether it’s preparing legal briefs or slicing meat.
“Do you want to dance?” Everett asks once we’re through, nodding toward the small dance floor where a few couples sway to the pianist’s rendition of what might be a Sinatra song if Sinatra had been heavily sedated.
“Dance? Me?” I blink at him. “I haven’t danced since... well, since before I had two humans extracted from my body. I’m not sure my center of gravity has recalibrated yet. More than a few people so far have asked how far along I am.” I wince and Everett winces, too.
It’s true. It happened in the elevator twice after I spoke to Sherry. “I told them I doubt this baby will ever come out. I’m so big you’ll drop me.”
“I will never let you fall,” he promises, his blue eyes softening in a way that still makes my breath catch after all this time.
“That’s a big promise,” I warn him. “I’m basically a human Jenga tower at this point—one wrong move and everything collapses.”
“I’m willing to risk it,” Everett says, extending his hand across the table.
I place my hand in his and marvel at how his fingers completely envelop mine. “If I step on your toes, remember that you asked for this. Literally.”
He leads me to the dance floor with one hand resting on the small of my back—a touch that sends a familiar warmth spreading through me.
For a man who presents such a stern facade to the world, Everett Baxter sure knows how to move.
He guides me into a gentle sway and his body forms a protective barrier between the other dancers and me.
“You’re good at this.” I bite down on a smile as I look up at him. “Is there a secret dancing clause in the judge’s handbook I don’t know about?”
“Chapter seven, subsection B,” he replies with mock seriousness. “All judicial appointments must be able to execute a basic waltz and at least one form of Latin dance.”
“I knew it,” I say, fighting another smile. “The judicial system is just an elaborate front for ballroom dance competitions.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest, a sensation I feel more than hear. “You’ve discovered our secret. I’ll have to silence you now.”
“You could try,” I challenge, “but I’ve got twins with lungs powerful enough to shatter glass. They’ve already mastered the art of making sleep impossible. Imagine what they could do if they really put their minds to it.”
“A terrifying thought,” Everett agrees, pulling me closer. The scent of his cologne wraps around me—woody and warm with hints of something that’s uniquely him. It’s intoxicating in a way that beats any cocktail.
We sway together, and I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
Despite the chaos of the last few days—the murders, the competition, the chaos of traveling with newborns—this moment feels perfect in its simplicity.
Just Everett and me, moving together in a bubble of our own making.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
“For what?”
“For this. For being the calm in my storm. For not running away when things get complicated or messy or dangerous, which seems to be my default setting these days.”
His arms tighten around me. “I’m not going anywhere, Lemon. Not now, not ever.”
“Promise?” I look up at him, suddenly needing the reassurance more than I’d care to admit.
“Promise,” he says, his voice carrying the weight of an oath. “Though I can’t guarantee I won’t occasionally remind you of your uncanny ability to find trouble in the most unlikely places.”
“It’s a gift,” I say with a dramatic sigh. “Or a curse. The jury is still out.”
“Speaking of juries,” Everett says as his tone shifts just enough, “what do you make of our suspects?”
Leave it to Everett to turn a romantic moment into a crime discussion. Yet strangely, it only makes me love him more. This is our normal—swaying on a dance floor while dissecting murder motives.
“Sherry had a motive, but I don’t think she did it,” I tell him. “Chuck is acting suspicious, and apparently, he and Jolene were engaged, which she was threatening to end. And then there’s Pacy, the security director, who had some kind of history with Jolene.”
“Engaged?” Everett’s eyebrows lift. “That’s interesting. And potentially damning.”
“Plus, our friendly neighborhood ghost Elvis 2.0.” I quickly give him the rundown on Jolene’s estranged father, Raymond “Ray-Ray” Tupowski, who also managed Dirty Joe’s Elvis career.
“He has a habit of breaking into song at inappropriate moments and seems excessively fond of rhinestones, even in the afterlife.”
Everett tilts his head to the side. “Of course. Because a regular murder investigation would be too straightforward without ghosts.”
“Hey, you knew what you were getting into when you married me,” I remind him. “The package deal includes ghostly visitors, an uncanny knack for finding bodies, and frequent brushes with death. The plus side? Amazing baked goods and a never-ending source of stories for dinner parties.”
“The pastries make it worth it,” he deadpans. “And so do your kisses.” He lands a wet one on me to prove his point.
The music changes to something with a slightly faster tempo, and Everett adjusts our pace accordingly. He’s better at this than I expected; perhaps judges have more fun than they let on.
“So what’s our next move?” he asks, expertly maneuvering us around an elderly couple who appears to be doing more arguing than dancing.
“I need to talk to Chuck,” I decide. “Find out what he’s hiding. And maybe see what Ray-Ray can dig up on Pacy. Ghost reconnaissance has certain advantages—like being able to pass through walls and eavesdrop without being detected.”
“Just be careful,” Everett warns, his expression serious. “Whoever killed Jolene and Dirty Joe isn’t playing games.”
“Neither am I,” I assure him. “I’ve got too much at stake to take unnecessary risks.”
“Says the woman who once confronted a murderer armed with nothing but a spatula and a questionable understanding of self-defense.”
“That spatula was solid oak,” I defend myself. “And it worked, didn’t it?”
“By sheer luck,” he reminds me.
“I prefer to think of it as strategic baking implement deployment.”
The song ends, and Everett dips me gently—a move so unexpected that I squeak in surprise. He pulls me back up until our faces are just inches apart, and I catch a glimpse of something over his shoulder that makes my blood freeze.
There, lounging at the bar with a perfect view of the dance floor, is Pacy Morgan. His too white teeth gleam in the low light as he raises his martini glass in a mocking toast.
And right next to him, looking significantly more disheveled than when we last saw him, is Noah, engaged in what appears to be an intense conversation.
“What?” Everett asks, noticing my expression.
“Don’t turn around,” I whisper. “But I think our investigation just got a lot more complicated.”
Because if Noah is talking to Pacy, one of our prime suspects, then whatever he’s hiding might be more dangerous than I imagined.
And in Vegas, danger isn’t just a game—it’s a death sentence.