Lemon rushes over, eyes wide, trying very hard not to laugh but failing miserably. “Everett—are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I brush glitter off my jacket. It doesn’t help. It never helps. Glitter is eternal. Glitter is a curse. “I’m just glad the boys weren’t here. If glitter got in their eyes?—”
“They’d be fabulous,” Carlotta finishes. “But also, yes, probably screaming.” She snaps a few pictures of me. “Sexy, you’re sparkling like a New Year’s Eve party gone wrong.”
“Or gone right,” Lemon teases while biting down a smile.
I step fully outside, still shedding glitter like some kind of sad, sparkly molting bird, and try to assess the damage. The bucket is lying on the porch, a piece of fishing line still attached to the doorframe. It was rigged. Deliberately. By someone who clearly thought this through. And it doesn’t take a genius for me to guess who.
I’m about to head back inside to shower off approximately three pounds of craft supplies when I hear footsteps pounding across the street.
Noah jogs up the driveway, takes one look at me, and stops dead.
His mouth twitches. “You look?—”
“Don’t.”
“Like a very masculine fairy.”
I growl his way.
He loses the battle and grins. “I’m guessing the Pickens kids struck again.”
“Unless you have another theory for why I’m currently coated in enough glitter to outfit every preschool in the nation, yes.”
“Well.” Noah’s grin fades. “It looks like both of us won’t be going anywherefor a while.”
I blink glitter out of my eyes. “Why aren’t you going anywhere?”
“Someone let the air out of all four of my tires.” His jaw tightens. “Completely deflated. I’d need a tow truck or four portable air compressors to even think about driving that thing.”
We stand there in my driveway, me covered in glitter, him about to lose it with barely contained rage, and something in me snaps.
“That’s it.” My voice comes out low and calm, a sure sign I’m furious. “This has to end. This has to end now.”
Noah nods slowly. “Agreed.”
Behind us, Carlotta leans against the doorframe, still grinning. “Ooh, this is getting good. What’s the plan, boys? Stakeout? Citizen’s arrest? Tactical glitter bomb retaliation?”
“Something legal,” I say through gritted teeth. “We’re keeping this legal, remember.” Although my zest for all things legal is quickly starting to fade.
“We’re keeping it legal for now,” Noah adds darkly, and it lets me know his zest for all things legal is fading fast, too.
I meet his eyes, and he meets mine.
Whatever we’re about to do, it’s going to be methodical, calculated, and completely by the book.
But those kids are about to learn what happens when you declare war on a judge and a detective who’ve officially run out of patience.
LOTTIE
By the time I drop Lyla Nell off at preschool, where she practically sprints inside shouting orders like a benevolent dictator, I feel my shoulders finally unclench.
The twins and I make it to the bakery without incident, which in Honey Hollow means no ghostly interferences, no unexpected murders, and no rogue glitter bombs falling from the sky the way they did on Everett this morning.
He’s still sparkling. Noah says it’s distractingly majestic. I say it matches his personality—prickly with a hint of holiday shimmer. There were more sparkly vampire jokes, mostly from Noah this time.
Noah had to call a mobile service to come inflate his tires, which means he spent his morning standing in his driveway looking like a man contemplating violence while a guy with an air compressor charged him seventy-five dollars.
