Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 49385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
I set the plate down, stomach doing a little swoop. “Okay.”
He keeps his voice steady. “There’s a new player on a case we’re running. Name’s Mercer. He started following the team instead of the client—pattern-of-life stuff. We clocked him at a few places you’ve been. Bean Flicker. Baby Bungalow. The hospital.”
My heartbeat does a rabbit thing. “Is he after me?”
“No,” he says immediately. “No evidence of that. He’s mapping us. But by extension, he could map you. This is probably nothing. We’re treating it like something. That means: we don’t make it easy. We go together. We vary routes. We park under cameras. We keep our ‘I feel weird’ policy on loud. If anything pings wrong, we change the plan. And you text me when I’m not with you. Deal?”
I blow out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. It helps that he says it like a seatbelt, not a prison. “Do I get a code word?”
He considers, dead serious. “Gingerbread.”
I snort. “Perfect. Festive distress.”
“Exactly.” The corner of his mouth kicks up. “We’ll do Christmas. I’ll handle the vigilance.”
“Sharing the mental load is the hottest thing you’ve ever said,” I tell him, and the way his eyes soften makes my chest tighten in a way that isn’t panic.
We bundle up—me in a cream coat and my “I’m cozy but still a person” scarf, him in a peacoat and beanie—and take the stairs because apparently the elevator is for people who don’t have a bodyguard shadow. He carries my tote and my reusable shopping bags because he’s a gentleman who also fears paper handles.
In the car, he sets the mirrors, checks the rearview, then… okay this is extremely rude… reaches over to buckle me in when I fumble it. “Not condescending,” he says when my eyebrows go up. “Just… invested.”
“Fine,” I grumble, cheeks warm. “I like being invested in.”
The tree lot pops up in a vacant corner of a grocery parking lot. It’s like a movie. All twinkle lights strung overhead, pine scent so strong it feels like a forest exhale. A man in a Santa hat and hunter’s plaid greets us with mittened enthusiasm. His name tag says GUS (yes, like the mouse).
“First tree?” Gus asks, taking us in with kind eyes.
“First tree as a responsible adult,” I confess.
“Got yourself a helper,” he says, nodding at Lucas appreciatively. “He looks like he knows knots.”
“He knows… everything,” I say, then want to crawl into a wreath.
Lucas pretends not to hear, but his ears turn sincere pink. “She needs something sturdy,” he says to Gus, like he’s ordering armor. “Good needle retention. Not too sappy. We’re on a hydration plan.”
I roll my eyes with a laugh because this man is ridiculous in the most protective type of way.
Gus leads us down a row. I wander between firs that tower and firs that are charmingly lopsided, touching needles like I’m choosing a bridal gown. Lucas trails me at arm’s length, hands in pockets, scanning in that easy way he does. Every so often I catch him just… watching me. Like he’s memorizing me laughing at a particularly pompous spruce.
“This one,” I announce, stopping in front of a six-foot noble fir with perfect symmetry and a faint tilt at the top like it’s asking to wear a hat. “She’s perfect.”
“Test,” Lucas says. He runs the branch through his fingers, checks the trunk, wiggles the stand cut. “Approved.”
Gus makes a show of trimming and netting while a little kid in a puffer jacket watches like Gus is doing a magic trick. Lucas hoists the tree like it’s a baguette and ties it to the roof with a series of knots that make Gus whistle.
“You been to sea?” Gus asks, impressed.
“Different oceans,” Lucas says, and I tuck that away for later because it sounds like a story.
We pause at the hot cocoa stand for paper cups and an argument about marshmallows. I am pro-marshmallow to a degree that should be illegal. Lucas is pro-whatever keeps my hands warm. He cups my fingers around the cup and then, with zero fanfare, swaps his beanie for mine so my ears are covered better.
“This is a hate crime,” I tell him, peering up from a beanie that’s now slouching over my eyes.
“You look good,” he says, so simply it shuts me up.
Downtown Saint Pierce wears December like it’s auditioning for a greeting card—garlands looped between lampposts, a brass duo playing jazzy carols outside the bookstore. We duck into a few shops, and the rhythm is… easy. He stands with his back to a wall while I compare scarves for Amelia, but he also weighs in—“blue suits her eyes.” He suggests a travel mug for Mom with a lid that won’t betray her in the car. He picks up a tiny wooden rattle in the toy store and turns it like a jewel, thumb rubbing the grain. When I reach for it, he sets it in my palm like he’s handing me something rare.