CHAPTER 9
Ibarge through the cottage door like I’ve just gone twelve rounds with holiday shoppers, a chandelier-swinging Georgie, and a murder-solving compulsion that apparently doesn’t believe in vacation days—which, unfortunately, is the closest thing I have to a holiday tradition.
“There are my girls,” Jasper says, rising from the couch where he’s been waiting with the kind of patience that suggests he’s been tracking my location on his phone, possibly lighting candles to various saints, and maybe browsing online therapy options for spouses of amateur detectives.
He takes baby Ella from my arms and plants a gentle kiss on her forehead, then turns to me with a considerably steamier version that makes my toes curl despite my exhaustion and the fact that I probably smell like a combination of Jennilee’s expensive perfume and her cigarettes, a murder suspect interrogation, and whatever it is that anxious sweat smells like.
“You were out late,” he murmurs against my lips, and there’s definitely a question mark floating around that statement like a suspicious punctuation mark that’s been taking detective lessons from me.
“I went and did a little light shopping after the home tour,” I say innocently, dropping my bags by the door like they contain nothing more dangerous than holiday decorations and maybe some therapeutic chocolate.
His eyebrows do this thing where they climb toward his hairline in slow motion.
“How was the home tour?” Jasper’s voice takes on that particular tone he uses when he’s trying really hard not to laugh while also being genuinely concerned.
“Wonderful.” I leave out the wordinformativefor now.
He’s already reaching for his phone with his free hand, while baby Ella is still contentedly nestled in his other arm as if she’s completely unbothered by her mother’s tendency to turn social events into crime scenes. The man can multitask as if he’s juggling candy canes, a bucket full of ornaments, and a ticking fruitcake bomb.
“And what did you see?” He arches a dark brow my way and manages to look twice as handsome in the process.
“Oh, you know…” I wave my hand vaguely while trying to edge toward the kitchen, where hot chocolate might provide moral support, liquid courage, and possibly an alibi. “It was just your average fare for The Deck the Home Halls Tour thing. Very festive. Lots of Christmas spirit and... decorations. Educational, really. I learned so much about Victorian architecture.” And murder motives, but I leave that part out.
Jasper’s fingers fly across his phone screen, and I can practically see the exact moment he puts two and two together and gets “my wife is investigating again” with a side of “she took our three-month-old along as her adorable little accomplice.”
“It says here Jennilee Holly’s house was one of the homes on the tour’s agenda for the day,” he looks up at me with that mixture of exasperation and affection that I’ve come to recognize as peak Jasper. “You were investigating, weren’t you?” Botheyebrows reach maximum elevation, possibly achieving orbit. “And you took our daughter along as your tiny wingman.”
“Wingwoman,” I correct and cringe.
“Bizzy.”
There’s no anger in his voice, just genuine concern wrapped up in that slightly amused tone that means he loves me but thinks I’m one step away from needing professional intervention and that he might need a very strong drink.
“You took Ella to investigate a murder?”
“She was undercover,” I protest. “She wore herSilent Night, Violent Nightonesie and everything,” I’m only half-teasing. The onesie does exist; she just didn’t have it on at the time.
Before Jasper can begin his Lecture of Loving Concern, the doorbell rings like an actual Christmas miracle.
“Saved by the bell,” I whisper, bolting to the door like a woman dodging both judgment and accountability.
I’m pretty sure there’s a naughty list that Santa has for people who use their babies as detective accessories, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
“Expecting someone?” Jasper asks, though his tone suggests this reprieve is purely temporary and we will definitely be returning to this conversation, possibly with visual aids and a PowerPoint presentation about appropriate uses for infants.
“Not exactly.” I practically cling to the door like it’s dispensing free chocolate and pardons for questionable parenting decisions. And at this point, it may as well be.
To my surprise and utter delight, Emmie stands on my doorstep holding baby Elliot, with Leo behind her carrying what looks like missing cat posters. Behind them, two very excited dogs are doing that pre-entry dance that means my peaceful cottage is about to become a four-pet demolition zone.
“Hope you don’t mind the impromptu invasion,” Emmie says, already pushing past me because she’s been my best friend long enough to know that my door is always open, especiallywhen I need saving from awkward conversations with my husband about my investigative so-called hobbies. “We brought chaos.”
“You know your brand of chaos is always welcome here,” I say, giving baby Elliot a kiss on his chubby little cheek.
The second Cinnamon and Gatsby cross the threshold, my cottage transforms into the Westminster Dog Show meets WWE SmackDown. All four pets immediately launch into what can only be described as the Zoomies Olympics.
PARTY!Sherlock barks, racing figure-eights around the coffee table like he’s been injected with pure joy and possibly some kind of canine energy drink.
Did someone mention treats? Because I definitely heard the wordtreats! TREATS!Cinnamon bounces off the couch like a curly-haired missile with springs for legs and a one-track mind.
