Page 37 of How I Met Your Murderer

She swept out again, sequins flashing. Pepper gave me a knowing snort before he turned to follow her—four cheese cubes richer from having begged Eric for them, the little shite.

“And here I thought you were a cat person,” I teased him in my usual voice, having recovered from the pepper and the shock of Caoimhe popping in with a gift. I set the whiskey on the table between us, beside the dragon platter.

“I’m full of surprises,” Eric murmured, still staring after Caoimhe. Finally meeting my eyes again, he added smugly, “She thinks I’m cute.”

“She’ s not wrong,” I muttered.

His smile went soft. Dangerous.

I cracked open the bottle in front of us and took a long swig. The first sip burned like a blessing, and as I watched Eric lean in, I knew exactly what he wanted. I was ready for him. “It’s warm,” I said, licking a drop off my lower lip. “Smoky. Like . . . breathing in a bonfire. And it creeps up on you, the way it hits the back of your throat. Spins your head all around.”

He shivered. “God, I miss that. Well, not whiskey, but—the only thing I miss more than a good cocktail is probably sugar.”

I hadn’t eaten enough to be taking another sip from that bottle, but I did it anyway. I’m sure that was in the handbook—no drinking on the job—but where had following its many confusing (and often contradictory) rules ever gotten me?

I was here with Eric because I listened to my gut and made my own choices. And my gut said it was okay to indulge a little for once. I had been so ready for something to go wrong tonight, so braced for disaster that I had almost forgotten what it felt like to unwind.

“What was your favorite candy you tried on your Irish holiday?” I asked the adorable man across from me. I could pick some up in the village and eat it for him later.

“Maltesers,” Eric said without hesitation.

“But they get stuck in your teeth!” Too loud—one of the passing waitstaff shot me a curious glance.

“That’s the point,” Eric argued, picking up another strawberry and holding it out until I ate it from his fingers. “You let them melt. It’s part of the experience.”

“You’re meant to chew them,” I pointed out, softer.

“You’re meant to enjoy them,” Eric argued as I took another sip to chase the strawberry. “By any means necessary.”

“You’re impossible, Eric James Crawford. All right, then: least favorite Irish food you tried on holiday?”

Of course, he had to go and say colcannon.

“That’s comfort on a plate!” I said, my voice once again rising enough to earn a look or two from those working nearby. “Potatoes mashed within an inch of their lives until they’re soft as clouds. Butter that leaves a shine on your lips. Cabbage that turns the whole thing pale green, like spring in bloom.” I was waxing poetic thanks to the whiskey already—a sure sign that I should slow down. “It’s the kind of food that hugs you back. My mam’s is, anyway.”

Laughing a little, he held up his hands. “Okay, okay. I’ll take your word for it.”

“You shouldn’t,” I protested. “You should come taste it.”

His expression flickered. His eyes turned longing, wistful, a little sad. “Maybe someday, right? I’m not offended, I know you didn’t mean—”

“I’m an eejit. I’m sorry, Eric, that was a stupid thing to say,” I cut in. “A few drops of whiskey can’t make anyone that forgetful. I’ve no excuse.”

Just like that, his smile slowly returned. “You’re really cute when you’re trying to say sorry, but . . .” He reached a hand across the table, his fingers tendrils of ice where they gently lay over my wrist. “You’re not an ee-jit. Not at all.”

Listening to him try out an Irish accent was one of the best things I’d ever heard.

“What’s your favorite holiday?” he asked, handing me another strawberry and a merciful change of topic.

“Christmas,” I said immediately, mouth full of berry. “Lights. Food. Drink. Family. The whole thing. Everyone’s in a good mood, and they go out of their way for each other just that little bit more, the way I wish they would all year long. It makes such a difference. I love all the happy faces.” I studied him a moment, wondering if I could figure his out before I asked, “What about yours, then? Can I take a guess?”

He was brilliant and creative, so I bet he loved putting together costumes. When he nodded and smiled, I said without a shiver of doubt, “Halloween.”

I was rewarded by the flash of his teeth and a bit of extra shine in his eyes. “You got it,” he confirmed. “Well—it used to be, anyway. Now it feels a bit . . . on the nose.”

“Fair.” I took a drink for the both of us. “Burns less on the fifth go. Still plenty of notes of oak and chocolate, though.”

He smiled appreciatively, but stayed lost in thought for a moment. “I think . . .” he said slowly, “I’d pick something quieter now. Valentine’s Day, maybe. It’s simple—still plenty of sugar, and add in cards. Telling people what they mean to you. No noise, no crowds, just . . . sweet, silly, soft things.”