The babies are starting to fade out for the night. Elliot is rubbing his eyes, and Ella is fighting sleep with everything she has, still trying to grab at anything within reach even as her eyelids droop.
Jasper carries Ella now, cradling her against his chest like she’s made of spun glass, and we walk across the inn grounds toward our cottage with Fish in my arms and Sherlock andBiscuit Gravy following behind.
The night air is warm and soft, full of cricket song and the distant sound of the ocean. Twinkle lights are strung between the trees, and the whole property glows with that magic-hour light that makes even mundane things look romantic.
“She’s beautiful,” Jasper whispers, looking down at Ella.
“She is,” I agree.
“So are you.”
I lean into him, breathing in the smell of his cologne mixed with sea air and whatever dish soap he used when he helped Leo clean up.
“When this is all over...” His voice drops lower, meant just for me.
“When what’s all over?”
“The murder. The investigation. Mackenzie’s weeklong reign of terror.”
“That’s a long list.”
He nods. “I’m taking you away. Just us. Somewhere with no dead bodies and no mean girls and no civic budget constraints.”
“Is there such a place?”
He laughs softly and the sound vibrates through his chest. “We’ll find it. Maybe somewhere tropical. With umbrella drinks and terrible Wi-Fi.”
“Terrible Wi-Fi is the dream,” I say with a moan.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
We reach our cottage, the porch light glowing soft and welcoming, and Jasper shifts Ella carefully, reaching for the door with his free hand.
“Let’s get her to bed,” he says.
“And then?”
The smile he gives me is pure promise. “And then I have plans.”
“What kind of plans?”
“The kind that don’t involve murder investigations or yacht clubs or budget negotiations.”
Between the lobster rolls and the lemon tarts and the way Jasper’s looking at me right now, I’m starting to think maybe murder investigations aren’t entirely terrible—at least not when they come with afoundfamily, exceptional food, and a husband who can make even a nightmare week sound like foreplay.
CHAPTER 10
Less than eight hours ago, our very own Mayor Woods thrust a request of crustacean proportions upon us, and now I’m standing on a cordoned-off beach watching sixteen women in designer sundresses prepare to wrestle lobsters like it’s some kind of initiation ritual.
An impromptu lobster boil. Right here at the cove. Leave it to Mackenzie to reach for the stars and expect Emmie and her staff to land one on her plate and all the plates of her friends, too.
The sun is sinking low over Cider Cove, turning the sky into layers of pink and orange and deep purple that would be romantic if I weren’t currently supervising what’s about to become a butter-based crime scene.
The beach smells like garlic and salt air and melted butter, and somewhere behind me I can hear the staff from the Country Cottage Café setting up the final touches on the longest farmhouse table I’ve ever seen. White linen tablecloth, Mason jars stuffed with blue hydrangeas, and string lightsoverhead that are going to look magical in about twenty minutes when the sun finishes its dramatic exit.
Mackenzie got a city ordinance passed—because, of course, she did—to turn the cove into a private beach for the night, which means I had to give the inn staff strict instructions to reroute our actual paying guests to the public beach down the way.
