“Well, you’ve said hi, and I have places to be.”
“Where?” she asks, head tilted.
I let out an irritated breath. “Grocery store.”
Lie.
“Goody.” She puts her hat back on. “I need a few things to take back to my hotel with me. Let’s go together.” Before I can protest, she snatches up her coat again and marches out the door.
There’s more fight in me, but I can’t find it today. I spent most of my morning wishing I’d taken Ella’s invitation to visit for Christmas, but it seems unfair that I impose on them every year. I love seeing Ella and the kids. Gable I could take or leave, but that’s her family now.
And I can spend one Christmas alone, right?
At least, that’s what I thought. But as the day approaches, I’ve realized just how much Ella does for Christmas now she’s a mom. There’s always snacks, food in the fridge, alcohol to help Gable and I tolerate each other. She even makes me a damn stocking.
My house is bare. The tree is pitiful, something I only put up to pass the time, and there’s no homemade desserts or turkey sandwiches in my fridge. There’s butter, beer, and an onion I’m fairly sure is growing legs.
So, fuck it. A trip to the grocery store with a murderer is better than being alone. And at least it puts today’s task off until tomorrow.
Monty waits at the bottom of the porch steps and gestures for me to hurry. I lock the door, and we walk side by side to my truck.
“I’m guessing that electric piece of metal is yours,” I say, gesturing at the car parked on the street. We pause at my truck—a damn sight older than her trendy electric “car.”
“Yes. It’s environmentally friendly, and—” Monty pauses, the only movement a gentle arch of a well-shaped eyebrow. Her gaze darts between the open passenger door and me. “You opened the car door for me.”
“Points for observation, sweetheart.”
She lifts her chin. “Men still do that?”
“I can’t speak for all of them, but I do. Are you getting in?”
Her sudden reluctance is brief but noted. Clearly, she hasn’t been around many polite men. Maybe that’s why she’s so quick to kill them.
Eventually, she climbs in, dusting off her coat.
“Seatbelt.”
She bats her lashes. “Yes, Officer.”
I slam the car door shut, shaking my head as I round the truck.
And fuck me, could my timing be any worse?
“Chief!” Tim Stafford salutes as he crosses the street, and I somehow force a smile.
God, I hate this man. I’m all for law abiding citizens, but this guy would call the cops if he saw a slightly wiry squirrel. He’s also supremely giddy about the fact that he went on a date with my ex-wife after my divorce, as if that’s anything to be proud of. The woman tried to set my car on fire when I ended things; I don’t exactly miss her.
“Not going to your fancy cabin this year?” he asks, reaching my side of the street. The man irons his fucking jeans, I can tell.
Gable put his and Asher’s cabin in my name before he “died.” I tell everyone that’s where I go at Christmas, but truthfully, I haven’t set foot in it once.
“Not this year,” I say, making my move to leave.
“Hold up!” he says, and I face him again, giving him my best fake smile. He puts his hands on his hips. “You gonna be okay? All alone on the holidays? You could go to the church. They do things for seniors.”
Somehow, my teeth don’t crack when I clench my jaw. “I’m forty-eight, Tim. Not much older than you.”
“Yeah, but I read somewhere that for every special event you spent alone, it adds ten years to your life. That means you’re pushing a hundred, buddy.”
