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There was nervousness in her voice. In her eyes, too, and Emmy thought of the letter she’d seen from Gladys to Clive Dunbar.
“I did,” Calen confirmed. “I’m hoping to have permission tomorrow to go ahead and release them. If not, it could be a while.”
A while because the day after tomorrow would be Christmas, and the post office would be closed.
Gladys nodded and moved in even closer. “Well, I was wondering if any of the mail was addressed to me. Or from me.”
“I recall one letter,” Calen said, studying her and no doubt seeing the woman’s anxiety as well. “Once it’s released, it’ll be delivered to the intended recipient.”
Gladys’s forehead bunched up. “I suppose that has to happen? It’s just, I, well, I might have said some things in a letter that could sort of make someone uncomfortable.”
Emmy didn’t know if that discomfort would be felt by Gladys or Clive. “Maybe it’d be best to give the recipient a heads-up?” Emmy suggested.
Gladys sighed and downed her entire glass of champagne. She looked at Emmy. “Have you ever taken a risk by telling someone something they might not have ever suspected?”
“Yes.” Emmy could answer without hesitation.
Perhaps it was that lack of hesitation that caused the flash of surprise in Gladys’s eyes. “Then, you know it could backfire.”
“Yes,” Emmy confirmed. “But I also know it might not. My advice? Give the recipient a head’s-up.”
And just in case Gladys didn’t know the immediate location of that person, Emmy motioned toward one of the food tables where Clive was standing in his green bell-bottoms and tie-dyed shirt. Clive wasn’t the sort to spring for tickets, but since he painted the Christmas murals on the civic center’s walls, he always got an honorary invitation.
Gladys blushed, but Emmy didn’t think it was because Calen and she knew the woman’s secret. Nope. This seemed more of a naughty blush, and Emmy could relate since she’d spent most of her adult life thinking naughty thoughts about Calen.
When Gladys started moseying in Clive’s direction—emphasis on the moseying—it seemed to be a cue for others to start converging toward Calen and her. At least a dozen came, all talking at once. Or rather whispering at once about getting a look at the mail. That gave Emmy her own cue, and she set aside their champagne so she could lead Calen to the dance floor.
“Apparently, there are a whole bunch of secrets in Christmas Creek,” she murmured to him.
“Apparently,” he agreed, pulling her into his arms.
Emmy might have said more about that, might have speculated what those secrets were, but she felt the slide of his arm around her waist. Felt the sparks when Calen pulled her closer until they were body to body.
Everything else vanished.
Well, everything that wasn’t Calen related anyway. Her whole being was attuned to him. To just this moment. To the fantasy of being here with him. She could see the need for her in his eyes. Oh, her best friend was still there in that need and heat, but this combination of confidant and lover was so much better.
“You’re smiling,” he said, and then added, “Since we’ve gone public by coming here on a date, you want to get folks’ minds off the mail?”
He didn’t wait for her to answer. Calen leaned in and gave her a kiss to remember. It was one of those long, slow ones that was no doubt a little too long and slow, considering how many eyes were on them right now. But the advantage of a great kiss was that it fuzzed her head enough that she decided not to think about that either. She just melted into the kiss, and when Calen finally ended it, she melted against him with a satisfying sigh.
“Interrupting anything?” someone asked.
There went her satisfying sigh, but Emmy bit off the groan that bubbled up in her throat because she knew the snarler was Owen.
“As the sheriff, shouldn’t you be working on getting our mail released?” Owen went on. “Mail that your father hid and didn’t deliver.”
“It’s my night off,” Calen said, and though he didn’t groan or snarl, it was obvious he was annoyed by the interruption.
“You’re making a spectacle of yourselves,” Owen accused.
Calen and she huffed in unison and turned toward the pest that she’d once agreed to marry. In hindsight, she had really dodged a bullet there. “You mean like the spectacle of you having sex with Sasha?” Emmy countered. She leaned in, narrowed her eyes. “Because you don’t get to lecture me about anything. Understand? Understand?” she repeated in a louder, meaner tone when Owen didn’t respond.
Okay, so she apparently still had some pent-up anger, but it wasn’t about Owen’s cheating. It was because he apparently thought he still had the right to inform her of his opinion. He didn’t.
Emmy had to do some mental head-shaking because clearly this mean, cheating streak had been in Owen, and she’d never seen it when they’d been together. Of course, she’d known he was ambitious, and often he’d let ambition drive him to work long hours and make big plans. Owen had wanted her for his wife because she fit his image of the woman he wanted beside him as he climbed up the political ladder. But in hindsight, she had to wonder if she’d ever been truly in love with him. Had she accepted his proposal only because Calen was getting on with his own life? With someone other than her?
Her shout had caused the room to go quiet again, and Owen’s assistant, Tate, moved in to take hold of his boss’s arm. Always the diplomat, Tate muttered an apology to no one in particular and tried to get Owen to back away, but her ex held his ground and shifted his attention to Calen.
