Holiday Wedding (Holiday Romance-Spicy Version #2)

8

Wednesday, December 11

13 days until the wedding

Jenny

As predicted, the day after the Lola incident photos of the kiss are everywhere. I call Gwen and am surprised to find she’s handling it pretty well. Apparently, she had a good conversation with Caleb about it. I talk to her about the stalker, treading lightly because I’m not sure what details Caleb told her and what he left out. She seems to be aware enough to be careful. I add my own warnings, an urge to protect her overriding all other thoughts. I miss her, but we’ve been long-distance friends long enough that our near-daily phone calls feel natural. It’s funny, really, how we’ve traded places. Now she’s the one on the West Coast, and I’m here on the East Coast. A few more weeks and we’ll switch again.

It’s evening, and the light and the temperature are both dropping. I’ve just left some fabric samples for tablecloths at the wedding at Caleb’s place. He needs to choose one. He’d seemed tired, dark circles under his eyes. He’s probably not sleeping well with Gwen gone.

Even though he’s obviously suffering from the strain of preparing for the wedding and missing his fiancée, Caleb still took the time to ask me how I’m doing, to check if I was okay.

“Let me know if you need anything, anything at all,” he said, which made me feel guilty, knowing that Eddie’s out there searching for dirt on him.

Should I warn Caleb? I wonder. But about what? Eddie hasn’t found out about the stalker or the Secret Santa website. Besides, I don’t want to add to Caleb’s stress. I’ll keep quiet for now. If something solid comes up, if there’s a real threat, then I’ll let him know. I reassure Caleb that I’m fine and say good night.

The doorman lets me out into a winter wonderland. Trees decorated with glowing white Christmas lights bow under the weight of dangling icicles. The snow is coming down harder now, piling up in drifts that cover the toes of my boots. A frigid breeze whips snowflakes into tiny tornados that rise into a spinning column and then, without warning, collapse back to the ground. The freezing temperatures are no deterrent to seasoned New Yorkers, who walk at a fast pace down the frosty sidewalk. They tuck their heads into their chins and charge against the wind like battering rams. It’s past 10:00 p.m., but the streets are still busy.

A flicker of light in a car parked across the street highlights a familiar face. I wait for a taxi to race by and then cross the road with my arms out for balance. I knock loudly on the passenger window. The dark-haired man inside startles and turns toward me with a deep frown. He waves for me to go away. I point at the car door. With exaggerated facial expressions, I mouth, “LET. ME. IN.”

Even from the outside, I can see his shoulders move up and down as he lets out a heavy sigh. I point again. He angrily jabs at the button by his elbow, and the locks click open. I slide into the car, welcoming the warm blast of the heater.

“Hi, Dean.” I smile widely, then pull off my yellow woolen mittens and raise my hands to the vent, which spills out warm air.

He gives a curt nod with thin lips and narrowed eyes. “Jennifer.”

“What’re you doing out here?” Empty coffee cups are scattered in cup holders. The windows are partly fogged over, but he’s wiped a circle clean on his side of the car. Through that clear patch, I see the front of Caleb’s building.

“I’m on a stakeout.”

“A stakeout?” I laugh, falling back into the seat and clutching my stomach. The word sounds so dramatic, like I’m in the middle of an NCIS episode.

Dean isn’t amused. “At least I was until you came along and tipped off my location.”

He’s peeved at me.

What else is new?

“Who did I tip off? Who’re we looking for?” I lean past him and squint out the window, trying to see through the snow, my shoulder brushing his.

Why is his body so hot? Temperature hot, although it’s hot in the other way too.

He stiffens at our contact, but I don’t pull away. It’s too much fun rattling his composure, making him squirm.

“There’s no ‘we,’ and the answer is whoever’s stalking Caleb.” He sinks lower in his seat, returning to his vigil. “They come here at night and take photos.”

Dean takes his cell phone out of the cupholder between us and thumbs it on. The light from the screen highlights his features with broad cheeks, dark brows, and thick eyelashes. The flecks in his eyes shimmer like gold dust.

Once he’s navigated to the Caleb’s Secret Santa website, he swipes on the Naughty or Nice photos tab. A few scrolls, and he holds out the phone to show me a nighttime shot of the scene outside his window of the front of Caleb’s building. In this picture, it’s raining, and puddles on the street reflect the moon overhead. Caleb kisses a woman with long, blonde hair, leaning her back like he’s about to dip her.

Gwen.

I recognize her yellow raincoat and rubber boots. Predictably, there’s a big, red, “Naughty” stamp on it.

Dean flicks his finger to show me another, of Caleb stretching his arms above his head with his running shoes on and a fitness tracker strapped to his arm. The next one is of Caleb lifting a hand to wave good-bye to his mother, who is in the corner of the frame. Those two photos are labeled as “Nice.” I guess even the stalker accepts that Caleb should be allowed to hang out with his mom.

The position of each photo is nearly identical, close enough to see what Caleb’s doing but far enough to miss the small details, like the individual buttons on his coat or laces on his shoes.

“Judging by the angle of the shot, I think they hide over there.” He points to a cluster of trees across the street, half a block away. It’s lined up to be clearly visible from where we sit. “I don’t know how they figured it out, but there’s a blind spot there where the security cameras of all the surrounding buildings can’t see. I’ve put up temporary cameras aimed at that location, but somehow they disable them every single time. They never show up when I’m here. It’s frustrating.”

I investigate the area he’s staring at, searching for the culprit. All I see is tree branches dancing from the wind. Moving slowly, so Dean won’t notice, I get a sugar-free strawberry candy, the kind with the soft center, from the front pocket of my jeans. I have to rise up slightly and tilt my pelvis to wrestle it out. With exaggerated care, I unwrap it as silently as I can. He turns back right after I slip the disc into my mouth. Holding my lips still, I suck on it while Dean lets out a deep yawn. He rubs his eyes with both fists, the way a small child would.

“How long have you been out here?” I ask, tucking the candy into my cheek, alarmed by the fatigue I sense in the slouch of his shoulders. He and Caleb could have a contest to see who has bigger bags under his eyes. I’m not sure which one would win.

Dean shrugs, the motion lagging. He checks his big, black wristwatch. “Since 5:00 p.m.” He yawns again.

“Uh-huh, and how late do you plan on staying?”

“Dunno. Maybe 2:00 or 3:00 a.m.? That’s when I left the last couple of nights.”

“Wait,” I say, my voice rising in volume. He winces. “How long have you been doing this? I just saw you work all day.”

“I’ve lost track,” he admits, slightly sheepish. “Four or five nights?”

I clap my hand to my forehead. “What are you thinking? Staying up all night and then working the next day? You’ll be no use to Caleb if you’re sleeping on the job.”

His brow lowers, showing that he’s offended. “I would never fall asleep like that. Back when I was with the Army, we trained to stay awake for days on end.”

“The Army, huh?” I figured. He’s got that short haircut and precise way of moving, like he’s used to marching in formation. “How long were you in it?”

“From after college until about five years ago.” He lets out a jaw-cracking yawn.

“Why don’t I take over for tonight? You can get some shut-eye.”

“You wouldn’t know what to look for.” He blinks slowly, as if there are heavy weights attached to his jet-black eyelashes.

“Let me guess, a scary person in a trench coat and a top hat with pockets big enough to hide a camera and maybe a weapon?” I’m joking—mostly. I punch him in the arm and smother my giggle when he jerks it away.

“Come on,” I whine, drawing the word out. “I can do it.”

“No, crazy woman. I can’t let you. Can’t risk it.”

Of course he doesn’t trust me.

He quickly changes the subject. “Did you ask them?”

“Who?”

A car passes by, momentarily bathing us in its headlights. That flash of light accentuates the square angle of Dean’s jaw and the subtle bump in the middle of his nose, like it was broken once long ago.

He says impatiently, “Your friends, the reporters.”

“Oh. Yeah, Ron and Bradly. I asked both of them. Ron works on the Los Angeles Times with me, and Bradly writes for the Orange County Register. Figured that way we’d have access to a wider range of intel.” Look at me, using my fancy words, like I’m some kind of detective. Maybe listening to all those true-crime podcasts will finally pay off.

“Who’re they? Ex-boyfriends?” Dean watches me intently.

What a weird question.

“No. The only ex-boyfriend from work I have is Eddie.”

“Eddie?” He rears back. “I thought you were still dating him.”

Since when does Dean know who I’m seeing? Pretty sure I’ve never mentioned Eddie around him.

“Not anymore.” I heave a resentful sigh as I replay our breakup conversation from over two months ago. How Eddie had beaten me to the punch by dumping me. Stupid me. I’d been blindsided when he gave me the old, “It’s not you. It’s me. I need space. Blah, blah, blah,” speech. It shouldn’t have surprised me, Eddie had always been a jerk, but when he begged me to go out with him it felt good. To be wanted. I looked past his flaws and said “yes.” What an idiot. Had I really been that desperate? It’s so depressing that I sigh again.

“What’s wrong with you?” Dean’s frown deepens, and he shifts a little closer. “Why do you keep making those pathetic noises?”

“Pathetic! I’m not pathetic. I’m just…sad.” Tears threaten, but I hold them back. I did all my crying right after the breakup. It’s not that I cried over Eddie. He doesn’t deserve that. It’s more that I cried for myself. For yet another failed relationship.

“Why?” He scoots another inch closer.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand, since you lack basic human emotions, but I’m upset because it was my longest relationship, lasting over eight months.”

Even though I’d never thought Eddie was “husband material,” I’d held on longer than I should’ve, in part to prove that I could have a long-term relationship. Maybe it’s time to accept that I’ll never be “that” woman. The one who gets chosen for forever. I’m the fun girl. The one guys date right before they find their future wife.

“He’s an idiot,” Dean says dismissively.

My skin bristles at his offhand tone. “He is not.”

Why am I defending the man who dumped me over a 10-minute phone call? The one who’s currently making me miserable at work.

“A total loser,” Dean declares, as if that settles the matter. “I never liked him.”

“Have you even met him?” I ask, momentarily confused.

“Don’t have to meet him to know he’s a moron.” Dean crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his seat.

“Just because he chose to date me doesn’t make him stupid.” My temper flares into life.

“That’s not what I said.” He meets my eyes for a microsecond with an intense gaze, like he’s trying to communicate through telepathy or something. Then he’s back on duty, focused on Caleb’s building.

“You didn’t have to.” I curl in on myself. I won’t let him upset me. This Neanderthal of a man.

“Eight months, huh?” His back is to me. I can only see the curve of his cheek, the outline of his ear. “Why not longer?”

Silently, I mull over his question. “I don’t know. Guys don’t usually stick around for long. Maybe I’m too much? Too loud? Too opinionated? Too emotional? Too demanding?”

Dean scoffs. “Nonsense. You’re just enough. Not too much and not too little.”

Now I’m really looking at him, but it’s dark and I can’t make out his expression. “That was…” What was that? “Surprisingly kind of you.” I regard him warily, wondering where this version of Dean came from.

Maybe he’s so tired he’s delusional?

“I can be nice, you know,” he says, somewhat testily.

I hold up my hand, placating. “If you say so.”

A moment passes. He clears his throat, straightening. His eyes flick my way. “I figured maybe it was your brothers scaring men away. Don’t you have three of them? Older brothers?”

“Yeah. They’re quite a bit older—36, 39, and 42 years old now. I’m the baby of the family.”

“The spoiled baby?” His head turns back and forth between me and the street outside.

“More like the neglected one.” I stop and correct myself. “That’s too harsh. I was an ‘oops’ baby. No one was prepared for me, so much younger and a girl to boot. I was a rock thrown into my family’s well-oiled machine. My older brothers were super-athletic. They all ended up going to college on sports scholarships.

“I grew up playing in the grass next to their baseball and soccer fields. Running wild through the stands with the younger siblings of their teammates. Always the tagalong. My brothers were so busy. They didn’t want their annoying little sister around to embarrass them.”

That old sting of rejection tugs at me, but I brush it aside. “It’s better now that we’re all grown, but back then there was one person who wanted to be with me.”

“Gwen,” Dean guesses correctly. The sympathy in his gaze causes my chest to constrict.

“Gwen,” I confirm. “Before her dad died, her family seemed almost perfect. My parents would drop me off at her house so they could drive my brothers to their games. I’d spend all day there. She wanted to know everything about me—my favorite color, favorite food, secret crush. Being with her was like someone finally saw me.” I swallow around a lump in my throat and stare at my hands, folded in my lap.

“That’s why what I did, when I blew it and told Sarah about Caleb, that’s why it was so bad. I betrayed my best friend. I could have ruined her chance at happiness.”

There’s a long silence, where I look everywhere but at him.

“Gwen’s not your only friend, though. I’ve seen you flitting around like a social butterfly. Your phone is always lighting up with texts, emails.” So sharp, his gaze, like he wants to see past all my layers. It makes me feel vulnerable, exposed.

“I have lots of friends, but they like me because I’m entertaining. Because I do zany stuff. Take me to a party, and I’ll get people laughing. Everyone likes happy Jenny. Gwen’s the only one who knows what to do when I’m sad.” I stop, uncertain how to better explain it.

Dean opens his mouth to speak when a car driving by backfires, the sound going off like a gunshot. He flinches.

“You’re so jumpy,” I observe, picking a piece of white fur off my leggings. It’s left over from this morning when I did yoga with goats.

His scowl is back in place. “I don’t like loud noises.”

“That must be why you hate me, because I’m loud.” I say it like a joke, though his contempt has been bothering me. My laughter dies in my throat when he doesn’t join in.

His dark brows quirk downward, like he’s confused by what I just said.

Something occurs to me. “Wait. How do you know all that stuff about me? About my brothers? I’ve never told you.” I gasp. Without thinking, I put my hand on his arm and give it a hard shake.

“Have you been snooping around?” I demand. “Is that how you learned about my family?”

Dean lifts his chin, defensive. “I background check anyone who’s in close contact with Caleb.”

“What? You have a file on me?” I’m practically yelling, caught between anger and disbelief.

He squares his shoulders and says, “I do.”

I sputter.

“Common practice in my field,” he insists.

“Oh, sure. Because that’s not creepy at all,” I say sarcastically, with a theatrical eye roll. “I think I found the stalker, and it’s you.”

At that, Dean throws his head back and laughs, really laughs, a deep soul-shaking sound.

I gasp, my hand flying to my chest, “Oh my gosh! Do that again.”

His brow furrows, confused by my sudden change in mood. “Do what?”

“Laugh. I’ve never heard you do it before. You have a great laugh.”

He gives me a look like I’ve lost my mind.

“Seriously. You should do it more often.” I nod confidently.

A small shrug from him. “Not much occasion for it in my line of work.”

That spikes my curiosity. “How’d you meet Caleb, anyway? Get this job? You’re awfully dedicated, staying up all night.”

“I met him at a bar.”

My hand covers my mouth, concern softening the set of my shoulders. “I’m sorry. Do you have a drinking problem, too?”

He does another one of those deep laughs, his rich baritone filling the car. “No. That was the first time I’d been in a bar in over five years.”

“Oh?” I place my elbow on my knee and rest my chin in my hand, regarding him expectantly.

He purses his lips, staring back. “You’re not going to let this go until you get the story, are you?”

“Nope.”

A wry smile twists his mouth. “Fine, but you can’t print it.”

“Understood.” I grin, my anticipation almost unbearable.

Dean turns to watch out the window. “It was over four years ago in L.A. I’d been out of the Army for about six months, struggling to find work I liked. I picked up jobs here and there, but nothing felt right, like something I could do long term. Anyway, I went to the bar that night, thinking a drink might distract me from worrying.

“This man sits down next to me, wearing a baseball cap pulled down low. I thought he was older, with the way he walked, kinda hunched over and slow. He had a southern accent, light, but definitely there. We got to talking. I guess the couple of beers I had loosened my tongue, so I told him some of what was going on.”

Dean gives a lengthy pause here, and my reporter spider sense tells me he’s editing the story, hiding some detail.

“The man was tipsy when he sat down and getting more drunk as the hours passed. After midnight, he lifts his cap to smooth his hair, and that’s when I saw it was all an act—the accent, the walking, the mannerisms.

“I was like, ‘Hey! You’re Caleb Lawson. What’re you doing here?’ and I’ll never forget what he said. He sighed and said, ‘Trying to be someone else.’ And I said, ‘Me too, buddy.’”

Dean pauses again, sadness turning down the corners of his mouth. I resist the urge to reach out to him but restrain myself, not wanting to interrupt his story. “Then Caleb asked if I was going to stop talking to him like a normal person now that I knew who he was. Of course, I said ‘no.’”

A pained hint of a smile crosses his face. “We stayed until the bartender kicked us out. Caleb was pretty sloshed by then, swaying and tripping. I demanded he let me help him home. When we got here,” Dean hooks a thumb toward the building across the street, “he offered me a job. Told me to come back in the morning. I thought, “No way is this guy going to remember what he promised” but, well, I was looking for work. I showed up the next day, and there was Caleb, hungover, with a contract in his hands. He said, ‘You’re used to protecting people. I want you to protect me.’”

Understanding dawns on me. Dean’s workaholic tendencies make sense now. He thinks Caleb saved him, so, in return, he saves Caleb.

I open my mouth to respond when I notice movement outside the window. I catch my breath and point. “Who’s that by the front door? The woman in the trench coat?”

Dean swivels and peers through the snow. He gapes and says, “That’s Mrs. Wilkins.”

“Who?”

“Caleb’s old housekeeper.” He shoots a glance at me over his shoulder. “We fired her once we found out she was selling Caleb’s used underwear on the Internet.”

“Gross.” I wrinkle my nose in disgust. “People really buy that?”

“You’d be surprised. She was making a lot of money. We took away her key and changed the locks.” He taps a finger against his lips, watching as the woman disappears into the building.

We wait for several minutes, staring at the door, but no one comes back out. The whole time, my brain is whirring, sifting through everything I just learned about Dean, Caleb, and the stalker.

“That’s it!” I half-stand in my seat and clutch at his arm. Why am I touching him so often tonight? “It’s Mrs. Wilkins in the conservatory with the rope!”

He squints over at me, tilting his head. “Did you make a Clue reference? Like the board game?”

I put my hand over my mouth to stifle my giggle. “Sorry. Too much?”

He must not think so, because he laughs one more time, that amazing sound, and I laugh along with him.