The twirl also reminds me that Buttercup, my trusty Glock, is strapped to my thigh like the world’s most dangerous garter.
Cooper has no idea I’m packing heat along with my chaotic charm, and something tells me now isn’t the moment to mention his girlfriend is armed and slightly unhinged—or worse, that hedoesknow and is just rolling with it.
“Well, that old thing is going to be the death of me,” Cooper growls, his eyes tracking the movement of the fabric as if he’s filing it away for later.
Have I mentioned he’s a smart man?
“Speaking of death,” I murmur, pressing closer until we’re practically sharing the same air space, “did the toxicology report come back on the pudding?”
Cooper hesitates—just long enough to tell me I’m not going to like the answer.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “It came back. The sample was loaded with pentobarbital.”
My stomach drops. “So that means Julia did it?”
“No,” he says, firm. “That means I need to investigate and figure this out.” He holds my gaze. “Ibeing the keyword.”
I make a face.“Any chance you’ll be free after the fireworks for some private celebrating?”
Cooper’s hands find my waist, pulling me closer, and that’s when his fingers accidentally brush against the hard outline of Buttercup through the fabric of my dress. His eyes go wide, and he takes a half-step back like he just realized I carry more than breath mints.
“Is that a gun under your dress, or are you just happy to see me?” he asks, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that’s equal parts suspicious and incredibly sexy.
“Let’s go with I’m just really, really happy to see you?” I aim for innocent and land somewhere in the general vicinity of criminally unconvincing.
That frown on Cooper’s face tells me he’s not buying my act for even half a second.
“Effie.”
“Okay, fine,” I concede. “Maybe it’s possible I might be carrying a small personal protection device,” I admit, trying to make it sound like the most reasonable thing in the world. “You know, it’s sort of like my own festival security. There are a lot of people around. And you can never be too careful.”
“Effie,” Cooper repeats, shaking his head as if he’s coming to terms with dating a woman who treats firearms as picnic accessories. “Why are you packing heat at what is essentially a Fourth of July bake sale?”
Before I can come up with a reasonable explanation that doesn’t involve Uncle Jimmy’s deadline or my unfortunate side hustle as a reluctant assassin, Cooper’s phone buzzes with the insistence of official business.
He checks the screen, and his expression shifts from romantic concern to professional in a blink—faster than Watson spotting a dropped hot dog.
“Duty calls,” he sighs, showing me the text that appears to be from the sheriff. “Routine meeting at basecamp in the parking lot. Probably just coordination for crowd control during the fireworks, but?—”
“But you have to go,” I finish for him, trying not to let my disappointment show. “I get it. Public safety comes first.”
He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, and plants a kiss on me that tastes like naughty promises. My toes curl inside my sandals, my brain briefly powers down, and for a second, I forget my own name—along with the small, very loaded detail strapped to my thigh.
“Save me a spot for the fireworks,” he murmurs against my lips. “I’ll find you as soon as this meeting’s over. And hold your fire, would you?”
“Very funny. I’ll be the one trying not to get arrested for public indecency,” I promise, watching him walk away with a swagger that never fails to make me look.
Watson gives a soft woof, apparently disappointed that Cooper’s departure means the end of potential treats, then immediately perks up when he spots someone dropping nachos near the Colonial Kitchen truck.
I’m heading back toward our booth when I spot her—Julia Washington, struggling with what appears to be a bin large enough to house a bowling ball. She’s muttering to herself in the way people do when they think nobody’s watching.
She’s heading toward the back of her covered wagon food truck, which is parked in a slightly secluded area near the tree line where the festival lights don’t quite reach and the crowd noise fades to a distant hum.
It’s the sort of place where conversations don’t get overheard.
Exactly what I’m looking for.
“Julia!” I call, jogging over with Watson trotting beside me. “Need some help with that?”
