"It does," I say, pulling Sharon close to my side. My hand settles on her hip, claiming and protective. "We investigated Penelope's spending habits and discovered that she's planningsome kind of elaborate fraud scheme involving real estate development and psychological manipulation tactics."
The look on Cassian's face is worth every moment of worry I've had about investigating this in the first place. His mouth actually drops open.
"You did what?"
Sharon starts to answer, but her phone buzzes in her pocket. She glances at the screen.
Text message from Savannah: "Sharon, the babies are coming early. Well, not early. I'm having contractions, but they're not real labor. False alarm. The midwife says I'll have them on the 24th like we planned. But my nerves are shot."
Christmas Eve. Babies. Wedding. Fraud scheme probably exploding. All on the same damn day.
"Well," Sharon says, her voice going soft in that way it does when she's trying not to panic, "I guess we're about to have the most interesting Christmas Eve in Pine Hollow history."
I grunt. "Interesting is one word for it."
Chaotic is another. Complicated is a third. But what I know is this: Christmas Eve just became the day everything either falls apart or comes together.
And we're going to make damn sure it's the second one.
11
SHARON
The office is quiet when I'm closing up.
We are trying desperately to get other clients. We freed up space for Ben and Penelope's wedding, which clearly isn't happening, so Jessica has been spending time with her family and getting ready for Christmas, whereas I have been trying to chase down the clients that were turned away. But they've all booked other planners, which I don't blame them for this close to Christmas. My desk is organized. My scent is its normal strawberry honey mix instead of the panic blend that's become my default.
I've been spending time with the Burnside brothers over the last few days. Real time. Not just work-related phone calls or brief encounters at The Sway. Actual time where we sit together and talk and exist in the same space without any particular agenda. Jett has been teaching me about his stunt work. Pine has been showing me his art portfolio. Cassian has been sharing firefighter stories that make me laugh until my sides hurt.
It's been good. Better than good. I've enjoyed it in a way that surprises me. The way they include me feels natural. Easy. Like I've always been part of their orbit and we're just now acknowledging it.
I'm turning off the lights, my purse already slung over my shoulder, when my phone buzzes.
It's Jett.
Just seeing his name on my screen does something to my chest. Something shifted between us somewhere between the chess game at Cassian's place and now.
I answer before the second ring finishes.
"Hey," I say, trying to sound normal and probably failing spectacularly. "What's up?"
"Where are you?" His voice is different. Tight. Strained. Like something's wound so tight inside him that it might snap at any second.
My stomach drops like I've just gone over the edge of a cliff I didn't know was there.
"I'm at the office. Just closing up. Why? What's wrong?" I'm already moving toward the door, my keys in my hand, my heart doing something erratic and wrong inside my chest.
"There's been a call. Kitchen fire, residential property on Maple Street. Cassian's on the truck." Jett's words come out clipped. Controlled. Which is somehow worse than if he'd just yelled. Because Jett doesn't lose control easily, which means something is genuinely wrong.
The world doesn't tilt so much as it stops. Everything stops. My breathing. My heartbeat. The way I'm moving. All of it just halts like someone hit the pause button on my life without warning.
Kitchen fire. Cassian. Danger.
The words connect in my brain, and they don't make sense together. Cassian is fireproof. Cassian is solid and strong, and he walks into situations that would terrify normal people with the kind of casual confidence that comes from knowing you're the best at what you do. Cassian doesn't get hurt. Cassian doesn't get in trouble. Cassian is safe.
Except fires aren't safe. Fires kill people. Fires don't care how confident you are or how trained you are or how much you matter to someone.
"Is he okay?" My voice comes out small. Terrified. Completely unbefitting of someone who's supposed to be a professional adult. I sound like a child asking if her parent is coming home. I sound fragile.
