Holiday Wedding (Holiday Romance-Spicy Version #2)

15

Tuesday, December 17

7 days until the wedding

Jenny

The only part of me that’s warm is my hand, from the cup of coffee steaming in it. I rap once, hard, on the car window. Dean lets me in, surprise registering on his face.

“Here.” I shove the drink at him. “I brought you this.”

“Um, thanks?” He stares at it like it might explode.

Are we back to this? Back to hating each other? Not trusting each other? Back to him thinking I’m crazy? I thought we had a breakthrough at the cake tasting two days ago, but maybe I was wrong.

I haven’t seen him since then. Caleb’s been working in his restaurant and on Broadway with no special events, giving me a rare couple of days off. I don’t do well with free time. I spent it on the computer, double-checking that my code was correct. The program I created was running smoothly, filtering slowly through the over 800 suspects on Dean’s list.

My mind had wandered a lot during that time, mostly to a certain stern-faced, brown-eyed man. Whenever I thought of him, I’d felt a strange urge to see him. A magnetic pull to hunt him down. I ignored it until this evening, when it finally became too much. A quick stop at the local café and now I’m sitting in the car with him.

Wondering how I got here.

Wondering if this is a good idea.

I continue to wage my internal battle while Dean takes the first sips of his drink. I’m about to give up and leave when he smiles at me and says, “Thanks for this. It’s really good.”

It’s an open, honest kind of smile. OHMYGOSH, is that a dimple in his cheek? Now I’m in a quandary. I’m not sure which is better, his laugh or his smile. These thoughts are the last thing I need. On top of that, I’ve always been a sucker for a dimple.

“This was really nice of you. Are you all right?” Dean goes from that near-perfect smile to a frown of concern in zero to sixty.

I dig a peppermint candy out of my purse and eat it right in front of him, because who cares? My cover is blown.

“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” I grumble in a very “not fine” tone. I cram the empty wrapper back into my purse, unwilling to litter in his car.

He’s eying me cautiously, like a wild horse he needs to tame. “My sister once told me that when a woman says she’s fine, it usually means the opposite.”

And there it is. The problem. I didn’t even know he had a sister. I don’t know anything about this man, so I have no right to be freaking out over his fantastic laugh or dimpled smile.

UGH.

My hand goes to my shirt, pulling it down over my stomach, which I suck in instinctively.

He’s staring at me, waiting for me to respond like a normal person, but all I have is frustrated silence. Finally, I ask, “You have a sister?”

“Three sisters,” he chuckles. “All younger. When they started dating, it almost killed me. You can’t imagine the grief I gave their boyfriends.”

“What you’re saying is that you’ve been a bodyguard for a long time?” I tease, slowly relaxing.

“I guess when you put it that way—yeah. No one’s good enough for my baby sisters. Of course, they’re all married now. I’ve got two nephews and three nieces.” He says it so proudly that I almost expect him to whip out a bunch of family photos to show me.

His joy is infectious. I can’t help but smile with him. “Do you spoil them? Your nieces and nephews?”

“Endlessly.” He laughs, and that dimple deepens. I resist the urge to reach out and touch it, run my fingers over that divot. I don’t notice my leg is bouncing until he stills it with a single finger pressed on my knee. The contact is electric, sending a tingle up my leg. I freeze, wishing we could stay like that, with him touching me.

“Is it Mrs. Wilkins? Is she the stalker?” I blurt out, desperate to regain some control over the situation. My computer algorithm hasn’t ruled her out yet.

“No.” Dean removes his hand and folds it in his lap, leaving a void behind. “I checked. She got a job with the Andersons on the fifth floor. They’re retired university professors. I’m assuming no one wants to buy their underwear.”

“You never know.” My pulse has slowed now that he’s not touching me. “The world’s a strange place.”

“That it is.” He turns to stare out the window, giving me a view of the back of his head. His hair looks thick and touchable. I have an unbidden thought of running my hands through it.

He continues, “I reviewed the building’s security footage. Mrs. Wilkins comes in every day at 8:00 p.m. and leaves by 1:00 a.m. Mr. Anderson has health issues. I guess she helps Mrs. Anderson get him to bed and then cleans up afterward.”

“That doesn’t mean she isn’t taking the pictures.” I almost bounce my leg again just to make him touch me but muster enough dignity to stay still. “She could take them before or after work.”

It’s snowing harder tonight. Mountains of snow and ice pile up along the edges of the roads now, in some places two feet high. We keep our jackets on in the car even with the heater set to full blast.

Dean pulls his phone out of his pocket and pulls up the recent photos tab on the Secret Santa website. “Lots of these were taken when I know Mrs. Wilkins was at work. See this tree right here?” He points to a stately sycamore close to Caleb’s front door in the image.

I can see the real version of it from where I sit.

“When the sky is clear and the moon is full, that tree casts a shadow on the ground.” His finger traces the image. “From its position, I can estimate what time the picture was taken. Like a sundial, but in this case it’s a moon dial.” His eyes, luminous in the darkened car, meet mine. “Make sense?”

“Yes,” I confirm. “If it’s not Mrs. Wilkins, then who?”

Dean scrapes a hand across his stubbled cheek. He lets out a frustrated sigh. “I’m not sure. How about your reporter friends in L.A.? Any leads from them?”

“Not yet.” I crunch what’s left of my candy between my teeth, the sound loud. Dean winces.

He sips his coffee, and I try not to notice how he licks his lips after he swallows. The car feels smaller than it did last time. We both stare out the window, squinting to see through the billowing snow.

“I’ve got it!” I cry out, a thought hitting me like a lightning bolt. “It’s Lola in the library with the candlestick.”

“Did you play a lot of that game when you were a kid or something?” Dean gives me an odd look, quirking one eyebrow.

I laugh. He’s more correct than he knows. Gwen and I used to play Clue all the time.

“Lola’s got motive,” I argue. “She’s still in love with Caleb.”

Dean scoffs. “I doubt she was in love with him when they were together. She wasn’t exactly faithful.”

I think back to that encounter at Tavern on the Green. The possessive glint in Lola’s eye. Certainty snaps into place. I’m right about this. I know it.

“I’m sure. She still wants him. I bet it’s eating her alive—”

“Jennifer.”

“Just thinking about how she’s going to lose him to Gwen. I—”

“Jennifer.”

“saw the way she looked at him. It’s—”

“Jennifer.”

Dean’s raised voice finally penetrates my overly excited brain. I had already been awarding myself a Pulitzer Prize for solving the case.

“Yeah?” I deliberately slow down my thoughts so I can listen.

“It’s not her.” He chews on the inside of his cheek. “I checked. The photos are shot during times when I can confirm that Lola’s in other places. Earlier this week one picture was taken when she was at a premiere here in town, and another was taken when she was doing an interview.” He shows me the images and his phone and the corresponding articles.

“No, that can’t be correct,” I say, fighting back but with less bluster. I had been so sure, but now doubt creeps in.

“Sorry, but…” Dean’s whole hand is on my knee this time, stopping my leg from jiggling. “It’s not her.”

I deflate, out of steam and ideas. A sense of hopelessness rushes in. I’d wanted to solve this problem before Gwen gets home. Before the wedding. I’m not sure my computer program will find the answer in time, and, so far, Dean and I aren’t any closer to an answer.

“I don’t know who it is then.”

“Me either,” Dean says, his hand unmoving, warmth spreading from his palm through the fabric of my jeans and into my skin. Seeing my crestfallen expression, he gives my knee a gentle squeeze.

“We’ll figure it out, though. Don’t worry.”

We.

He said we.