Page 8 of Say Yes to the Death

If she was being honest with herself, she had dodged a bullet by breaking off her engagement. Jason was lazy, unmotivated, and utterly trapped in the past. A football star in high school and college, he had regressed to a chronically underemployed art history major who couldn’t even manage to set down the video game controller long enough to order takeout. But apparently Wendy didn’t mind.

Claire glanced repeatedly in her rearview mirror as she cruised down the empty stretch of state highway, but the press didn’t reappear. Her heart rate had returned to normal by the time she pressed a button and watched the newly installed gate across Luke’s driveway swing open.

Guilt settled on her like a stifling flannel blanket. Because of her, a serial killer had broken into Luke’s house and stamped Rosie’s paw on a threatening note. She had endangered everyone she cared about.

At the end of the winding driveway stood a remarkable country home. Natural wood and stone covered the facade. Turquoise Adirondack chairs sat on the front porch. Flower beds with knockout roses and lilies were in full bloom.

The humid air hung on her as she crawled out of the car. She swatted at a gnat and flinched when a hummingbird buzzed past her ear, aiming for one of the half dozen feeders Luke had stationed around the property.

Rosie leapt out beside her and shook, releasing a cloud of warehouse dust.

“Gross, Roro. I’m going to have to vacuum the car like six times. Do you want to go swimming?”

The dog’s ears perked up. Claire lugged her oversized purse on one arm and a tote bag on the other as Rosie bolted for the backyard.

Claire opened the gate, and Rosie darted inside. She pranced excitedly on the concrete edge, barking at an inflatable unicorn that listed lazily in the pool. Claire had purchased it online a few days earlier after indulging in half a bottle of merlot, and Luke had graciously blown it up for her.

“Okay, okay. Hold your horses.” She reached into her tote bag and pulled out a corgi-sized life vest. She stuffed Rosie’s tiny legs into it and dodged her sloppy tongue as she strapped her into the vest. Rosie immediately flopped on her back and rolled around on the concrete.

Satisfied with her handiwork, Claire walked into Luke’s pool house. She pulled down the blind on the small, square window and scanned the tree line. There weren’t any reporters dangling from the trees, but it wouldn’t be the first time someone had snuck onto Luke’s property through the woods. She quickly changed into a bathing suit. The last thing she needed was her bare bottom on the cover of a tabloid. Widowmaker Survivor Bares All. Not today, Satan.

After tucking herself carefully into the triangles of her bikini, she dragged the float to the edge of the pool. Rosie gave a stubby-legged leap and landed squarely in the middle. She rolled over on the unicorn to sun her belly, her tongue flopped out in pure doggie happiness.

Claire snapped a picture before turning her phone on silent and tossing it in her bag. Her clients weren’t likely to need her, and she could do with some peace before Luke came home.

She dragged another float out of the pool house and tossed it into the water. It bobbed gently while she carefully lowered herself onto it, frowning at the thick bandage on her chest. Her stab wound was like a new pet with specific rules: keep it dry, change the dressing every twenty-four hours, cover it with petroleum jelly. The alternative, as her self-proclaimed psychic mother advised, was to present a large potato and a penny to an Amish healer.

Claire closed her eyes and slid on her sunglasses, determined to push all thoughts of Wendy and the lawsuit from her mind. She wouldn’t get away with this. Sure, Claire had technically beat the crap out of her at Nicole’s engagement party. But if sleeping with Claire’s fiancé, sabotaging her biggest proposal ever, and insulting the bride-to-be at her own party weren’t punchable offenses, what were? What was she supposed to do, rob a bank for five million dollars so she didn’t lose her business in case Wendy won? Kyle would figure something out. Wouldn’t he?

She released the top tie of her bikini and tucked the strings underneath her, leaving the triangles to cover her bits. There was nothing she could do about the weird tan line she’d have from her massive bandage, but at least she could avoid the strings. She floated her arms out to her side and relaxed in the warmth of the summer sun.

CHAPTER FOUR

To Do:

- Call caterers—not Yuffie!

- Plan Nicole’s bachelorette party

An irritating tapping noise tugged at Claire’s consciousness. She had been in the middle of a dream in which she had to plan a proposal using only a handful of materials given to her by the Prime Minister of Singapore. A miniature Eiffel Tower had been half-constructed from paper clips and ponytail holders when she jerked awake.

Where was she? Was she sleepwalking again?

She shot upright, and the pool float slid out from under her. The shock of the cold water hit her like an uppercut as she slid into the deep end. Sputtering, she rose to the surface and grabbed blindly for the edge of the pool, a mat of wet hair clinging to her face. Rosie barked from somewhere behind Claire.

She coughed, trying to clear the water from her lungs as she made contact with the concrete edge of the pool and dragged herself up and onto the still warm pavement. Her bikini top was now floating several feet away from the edge. Long shadows stretched across the yard. The air had a chill to it now, and she had gotten her stupid bandage wet. Luke was going to be pissed.

“And who, may I ask, are you?” a sharp, nasal voice inquired.

Claire screamed and grabbed the pool skimmer, whipping it around and knocking a lounge chair over in the process. With her other hand, she struggled to cover as much of her top half as she could.

The source of the tapping noise revealed itself to be a tall, thin brunette woman who looked alert and pissed off, like a great horned owl ready to snatch up some field mice. She stood by the pool gate, one talon-like hand clutching a phone as she stared at Claire with narrowed eyes.

“Me? Who the hell are you? This is private property.” Was she press? Claire’s heart hammered in her chest. She did not need a picture of her looking like a damp mop on the cover of the West Haven Times. She held the pool skimmer in front of her like a sword, fairly confident that she could slam the net over the woman’s head and thrust her into the pool to make a quick getaway. But what would she do with Rosie? “How did you get through the gate?”

Rosie growled from inside her float, which was spinning. She stood in the center, barking each time she rotated to face the intruder.

The woman’s arms were crossed so severely over her torso that it looked like she was trapped in an invisible straight jacket. Gray strands peppered the hair that was wound into a serpentine chignon. Large pearl studs adorned her ears, and the Armani pantsuit she wore flattered her trim figure. She certainly didn’t look like a member of the press who had crawled through the woods to harass her. So who was she?

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