I blow out an exasperated breath and charge toward the door, grabbing his hand on the way.
• • •
AFTER OUR GOLDEN-HOURstroll, we’ve tallied up ten loved-up guests, one pond with six paddleboats, one hot tub in a rose garden, two barns—one full of horses, the other of bicycles—and zero loners with murderous vibes.
For a second, I thought we had a lead with a woman sitting alone on a bench. Then a man carrying two hot chocolates swooped in beside her, handing her one. She gasped in delight.
“Thank yooou!” she crooned. “Wait, go away and come back so I can get it on camera.” She whipped up her phone as he hopped out of frame and reenacted the scene, and then they kissed about it in selfie mode for a good minute and a half. So it would seem they’re the ones to beat.
Recon continues at cocktail hour on the patio, all aglow with tabletop firepits and swaths of twinkle lights. As we subtly scope out every newcomer, two glasses of cabernet between us, Grant reaches over the café table and covers my hand in his. I throw back a large mouthful of wine in response.
“What are you doing?” Grant hisses through a smile. “No drinking. We have to be alert.”Jesus. I really do need to get it together. I lower the glass, delicately spitting the wine back into it, and he pats my hand. “Classy.”
I’m about to retort when someone catches my eye—a middle-aged man wearing glasses and a pleasant expression, alone. He strolls to an empty table with a cocktail and a paperback in hand.
“Hey,” I mutter to Grant. “Three o’clock.” He looks in the opposite direction. “Otherthree o’clock.”
Grant looks in every possible direction before landing on the solo guest. “That’s my nine o’clock,” he murmurs. “Clock positions don’t work when you’re facing opposite—”
“Whatever. Could that be our guy?”
We stare sideways at the man as he settles in to read and sip his drink. “I don’t know,” says Grant. “He seems too happy.”
I know what he means. Crinkle-eyed and plump as Santa Claus, this man exudes a bone-deep satisfaction with life. He seems impervious to the fact that he’s alone in a sea of cutesy couples whispering sweet nothings.
Which, when I think about it,doesmake him seem like a psychopath.
“Maybe it’s all part of the act?” I suggest.
“Maybe,” Grant says, his voice low. “What’s he reading? Something a killer would read?”
“What exactly would a killer read, Grant?”
He heaves an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know, Roxie. I just mean does it raise any alarms.”
“Now that you mention it, itdoeslook likeMurder for Dummies. Oh, wait, no—The Idiot’s Guide to Stabbing People Until They Die.”
“All right, excuse me for thinking we should pay attention to the details here. We are in a crime novel, you know. There could be clues anywhere. There could be hidden messages. There could be—okay, he’s looking at us.”
In fairness, we were staring first—he simply caught us. Grant and I simultaneously shoot him big toothy smiles and raise our glasses. He glances behind him to see who we’re toasting and, seeing no one, offers a cheerful grin and a raised glass back.
“Okay,” I say. “I think he’s the one to watch.”
Grant wastes no time, making a show of interlacing our fingers, and a jolt runs through me. He caught me by surprise, that’s all.
“Loosen up,” he says, giving my hand a little shake. He smiles, though there’s a hint of warning in his eyes. “Maybe you could look at me like we’ve actually met before.”
“Maybe you could not tell me what to do,” I say sweetly, walking my fingers up his arm to poke him in the shoulder.
But Grant, for once in his life, is unflappable. He catches my hand in his own and leans slowly over the table, the fairy lights lending flecks of gold to his eyes.
My out-of-control heartbeat only gets wilder as Grant draws nearer, his gaze dropping to my lips. He tucks a finger undermy chin, tilting my face up toward his. I’m terrified that he’s forgotten our no-kissing rule, and even so, I can’t stop my eyes from falling closed in anticipation. Then his mouth detours to my ear.
“Is he watching?” he whispers, his warm breath sending an involuntary shiver through me.
Is who—?
Oh. Right. I glance over to the man’s table.
