Chapter 1
Dane Silver, a.k.a. a man very unaware of his own romantic situation
Someone is breaking into the house.
It’s broad daylight. My dog is beside me. There are neighbors nosy enough to notice—if any of them are home.
And someone is definitely jiggling the living room window on the side that overlooks the backyard.
Not that I can talk. This isn’t my house. I technically broke in too.
But my sister told me where to find the spare key for her little cottage, and the person now banging the lowered blinds of the window wouldn’t do that if they knew where the spare key was.
Mine was a legitimate break-in.
This break-in is more likely criminal.
But is there crime in the little town of Tinsel?
Not likely.
I look down at Chili, who’s sitting beside me on the overstuffed yellow-checkered couch that faces a brick fireplace with a television above the mantel.
My fluffy tan mutt stares back. He’s about fifty pounds of some golden retriever, some Labrador, and some something else. I could gethim a doggy DNA test, but he’s a good dog, if a bit lazy, and that’s what matters most.
“You gonna do something about that?” I ask him.
He yawns. Then looks back at the window to the left of the television and fireplace. Been a while since I took stock of Lorelei’s house, but I’m reasonably certain the window is at least five feet off the ground.
Whoever’s breaking in is going to a lot of work considering the front and back doors are both unlocked.
And there’s an arm flinging itself up over the sill, making the lowered blinds bang more. It’s a slender arm attached to a slender hand with slender fingers tipped in pink.
Definitely not Lorelei’s arm.
She’s not the pink-nail-polish type.
I look at Chili again.
He grunts at me and lays his head back down on the couch, where he’s in the direct path of most of the rotating fan’s track.
As a puppy, he would’ve been racing to make a new friend. But since he hit two years old, he’s happiest when someone else does the sniffing and investigating. I’ve had dogs all my life, and I’ve never had one this lazy.
Until you’re talking about food. Then, don’t get between the beast and his breakfast.
Trust me on this one.
From outside the window, there’s a grunt far more feminine than Chili’s grunt.
I set aside my laptop—work can wait—and pull myself to my feet. Debate tossing on a shirt.
You wouldn’t think it could get above ninety in this part of Michigan, but August has been brutal. Glad my grandparents have air-conditioning.
Wish Lorelei did, too, but that’s a future project for her fixer-upper. And the heat wave should break in a few days.
We hope.
I walk through the breeze coming off one of the two fans circulating air in the little cottage, earning another disgruntled noise from my dog, as the intruder’s second arm hooks itself over the windowsill and bangs the blinds more.
