Emmie grabs another slice of pizza. “What’s the vision? Tell me everything.”
I light up because I can’t help it. “Floor-to-ceiling windows, French doors to the gardens, built-in window seats, heated floors?—”
“Heated floors?” Leo whistles. “Fancy.”
“Historic properties require specialists,” I say. “And Sloane knows what she’s doing. She mentioned they just finished a project for the Hendersons in Rolling Oaks.”
“That’s the Victorian with the conservatory,” Emmie says. “I’ve seen pictures. And it is gorgeous.”
We’re quiet for a moment, just eating and watching the babies sleep and pretending like everything is normal and nobody has ever dropped dead at the inn.
Jasper sighs. “I need you both to be careful this week.”
Emmie and I look up.
“These women are dangerous,” Leo adds, quickly sobering up himself. “One of them is a killer. And if she’s willing to stab someone in the back to keep them quiet?—”
“She won’t hesitate to do it again,” Jasper finishes.
The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees.
“We’re being careful,” I say.
“I know you are,” he says, pulling me close. “But I need you to keep your heads on a swivel. Don’t go anywhere alone. Don’t let anyone corner you. And if something feels wrong?—”
“We get out,” Emmie says quietly.
“You get out,” Leo confirms. “No investigating. No confronting. You leave and you call us.”
“We will,” I promise.
Jasper looks at me with those gray eyes that see everything. “I mean it, Bizzy. I know you’re good at this. I know you can take care of yourself. But someone already died this week, and I’m not losing you to some entitled psychopath with a designer handbag and a grudge.”
“You won’t.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
He holds my gaze for another beat, then nods and lands a kiss to my lips. “I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I close my eyes for just a second, breathing in the smell of pizza and ocean air and summer nights that feel like they might last forever even though I know they won’t.
Somewhere on this beach, a killer thinks they’re safe. I’m about to prove them very, very wrong.
CHAPTER 13
It’s the very next day and I’ve been on my feet since six this morning, coordinating Fourth of July prep for the big day coming up, and if one more vendor asks me where the patriotic decor goes, I’m going to start answeringin the oceanjust to see what happens.
Every inch of my sweet inn looks like it’s been touched by Uncle Sam. Red, white, and blue bunting is draped across every available surface, miniature flags sprout from planters like a very aggressive crop, and there’s an inflatable bald eagle the size of a compact car positioned near the gazebo that keeps deflating on one side so it looks perpetually drunk.
Mackenzie’s vision of “tasteful Americana” has devolved into what can only be described as patriotic chaos, and really, I’m too tired to care.
It’s late afternoon, that golden hour when the heat finally starts to break and the ocean breeze picks up. The air smells like sunscreen and fresh-cut grass and the faint char of barbecue. Ella’s been at the beach with Gwyneth and Dad all day. I can see them from my office window, with Dadbuilding an elaborate sandcastle while Gwyneth reads under an umbrella.
And Ella is napping now, which means I have exactly forty-five minutes of peace before the evening shift starts.
