“That’s cheating,” he murmurs against my lips.
“That’sstrategy.”
Finally, some sense,Cricket announces.Now can we eat? I’m wasting away to nothing over here.
I love when Killion and Hattie kiss,Rookie sighs happily.It means everyone’s happy and more likely to share food.
We end up eating very little Chinese food, partly because Cricket and Rookie make off with most of the chicken, and partly because we keep getting distracted by each other in the most delicious ways.
The conversation about the investigation gets shelved. Replaced with far more pressing matters, like Douglas fir versus Fraser fir, and whether Rookie can be trusted not to body-slam a Christmas tree out of pure holiday enthusiasm. Spoiler? He cannot.
By the time we’re ready to head out to the tree farm, the takeout containers are mostly empty, the pets are contentedly napping in a food coma, and I’ve successfully avoided making any promises about staying out of Peyton’s business.
“You know what?” Killion says, pulling me closer as Christmas lights twinkle around us. “Maybe we should postpone the tree hunting.”
“Oh really?” I bite back a smile. “And what did you have in mind instead?”
His grin is pure trouble. “I was thinking we could stay in and practice some more of that unique strategy you demonstrated earlier.”
“That’s the best idea you’ve had all evening, Detective.”
“I have my moments.”
And just like that, our perfectly planned evening of Christmas tree shopping goes sideways—in a good way. The trees can wait. Tonight we’ve got takeout cartons everywhere, Christmas lights doing their best to make my tiny cabin look magical, and Cricket and Rookie committing poultry crimes in plain sight.
Honestly? This feels like a better plan anyway.
Besides, this is Brambleberry Bay. Plans don’t fail here—they just get… creatively rerouted by way of a hot detective’s lips.
CHAPTER 10
It’s late afternoon at the Brambleberry Bay Country Club, and the scent of cinnamon, cloves, and freshly brewed coffee wraps around me like a warm hug I didn’t know I needed.
The Cozy Bean hums with the quiet conversations of club members pretending they’re not gossiping about yet another murder on club grounds.
The Cozy Bean is exactly what its name promises—cozy—with its dark wood walls warm from years of coffee steam, mismatched armchairs angled toward a fireplace that looks like it was built by someone who takes winter personally, and enough flickering candlelight to make everyone look like they’re harboring a secret.
Christmas is staging a hostile takeover of the autumn decorations. Winnie’s crew moved through here earlier like holiday elves on a mission, clearing out mini pumpkins to make room for garlands of evergreen that now drape along the ceiling beams. Winnie owns The Crafty Treehouse, a crafter’s paradise, and I’ve also hired her to take care of theseasonal décor around here. And now twinkle lights shaped like tiny snowflakes have replaced the acorn fairy lights, and the scent of pine mingles with the coffee and cinnamon in a way that makes everything smell like Christmas morning.
I’m hunched over my laptop at a corner table, frantically finalizing details for the Christmas Eve Glittering Gratitude Gala and Champagne Charity Spectacular.
“The name alone requires its own zip code, but Peyton insisted on maximum pretentiousness.” I force a smile over at Cricket, pretending that Peyton herself wasn’t within earshot as she makes her way over.
I nod back at my laptop. “Ice sculptures? Check. Champagne fountains? Double check. A twelve-piece orchestra playing ‘Silent Night’ in seventeen different styles? Apparently, that’s a thing now. I want to get every detail perfect because I really don’t want to get fired by my big mean boss—who ironically, might be getting fired herself.”
I wink at Peyton, who’s settling into the chair across from me like she owns the club and has the receipts to prove it.
“I wish I were still your big mean boss,” Peyton says, tapping her holiday latte with a manicured hand. “Once I’m reinstated, I can’t wait to fire you. Ha-ha.”
Coming from Peyton, that’s practically a declaration of friendship. I decide not to tell her that.
“Ha-ha yourself,” I reply, taking a sip of my latte. The whipped cream is approximately three stories tall and decorated with fondant holly leaves that have absolutely no business being this adorable.
I still don’t understand why they insist on putting decorative leaves in your beverages,Cricket says from her perch on thearmrest of my chair.It’s like garnishing water with tiny trees. It makes no sense.
I think it’s festive!Rookie counters from his spot sprawled across my feet, his tail creating a small earthquake every time someone walks by with food.Everything smells like Christmas cookies and happiness.
Your standards for happiness are disturbingly low,Cricket replies.You also think the mailman is a celebrity.
