Page 57 of Home for Christmas in July

She holds up a hand. “I just caught someone breaking into it.”

My passenger sidewindow is smashed in. Glass covers the seat and the console. While I survey the damage, Marley and Nick stand a few feet away near the rear door of her office building, arguing in hushed tones over whether they should call the police.

“It’s the first night of Summer Christmas,” Marley issaying. “Yes, of course, report it. She’ll probably have to for her insurance, anyway. But the cops are going to have their hands full with visitors succumbing to elevation sickness and driving their expensive cars into dry creek beds because our road signs were designed as some sort of inside joke. Besides, I didn’t get a good look at the guy’s face before he ran off.” I know what’s coming next before she says it. “And he was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. I wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a crowd, let alone a lineup.”

Nick mutters a response that includes the word ‘stalker’ while I try to breathe. I’m suddenly hot and dizzy. I lean forward, grabbing the window frame to steady myself.

“Hey, careful, you’re gonna cut yourself.” Nick sprints to me and gently moves me back a step. “Besides, there might be fingerprints. You shouldn’t touch.”

At least I think that’s what he says. It’s hard to hear him through the buzzing in my ears. I sway in his arms.

“Light-headed … eat something … dizzy, hot ….” I’m trying hard to make sense and full sentences, but I can’t.

Marley springs into action and runs up beside us. “Give me your keys.”

I reach my shaky hand into my pocket, dig out the keys, and drop them into her palm.

“I’ll pull it into my lot. Nick, take her inside. There’s a jug of apple cider in my kitchenette. She probably has low blood sugar and the shock and stress are making it worse. Noelle, you drink some cider. Sip it slowly. Go.”

Nick scoops me up, and I interlace my fingers behind his neck and let my head loll back against his chest. He carries me in his arms as he runs for the door. It would be romantic if Iweren’t somehow simultaneously sweating and shivering. He kicks the door open with his foot and deposits me on the couch in Marley’s waiting room. There’s a light blanket folded neatly over the back of the sofa, and he drapes it over my shoulders.

“I’m going to get the cider. Don’t move.” He drops a kiss on the crown of my head and runs toward the back of the office.

As promised, he’s right back. He presses a coffee mug that reads ‘A Good Lawyer Knows the Law, A Great Lawyer Knows the Judge’ into my hands.

“Take a sip,” he urges, crouching in front of me and watching me with worried eyes.

I raise the mug to my lips and let the cold, crisp sweetness run down my throat. He reaches for the mug and rests it on the side table. “That’s enough for now.”

I nod and swallow. “Thank you.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t you thank me. I’m going to spend the rest of my life taking care of you.”

I manage a weak laugh. “Carol’s letter saidI’msupposed to take care ofyou.”

He grins and the skin around his eyes crinkles sexily. “I guess we’ll have to take care of each other then.”

I swear I could swim in his hazel eyes. I reach for the cider and take another small drink.

“I’m starting to feel human again,” I tell him.

He opens his mouth to answer just as Marley bangs through her own front door, eyes blazing. She locks the door. Then she pulls the shades over the window in the door and the big glass window behind the couch.

I give Nick a wide-eyed look. He shakes his head. Ofcourse, he doesn’t know anything more than I do. But his mouth is a firm, hard line.

Marley cocks her head and gives me a close look. “The color’s back in your face. Good. Let’s go to my office.”

She carries the mug of cider and Nick insists on carrying me, even though I’m sure I can walk without any problem at this point. But if the man wants to carry me around like I’m Cleopatra, who am I to argue?

Once we’re all settled in Marley’s light, airy office, she wastes no time. She slaps a sheet of paper on the desk. “This was in the footwell wrapped around a rock. Presumably, the rock used to smash the window.”

I stare down at the angry, scrawled words, and my heart palpitates. My mouth goes dry and my throat tightens. This is my worst nightmare, a nightmare that’s dogged me for twenty-seven years, and it’s come to life. I reach for the cider and take a long gulp.

Nick frowns at the message. “What doesti ucciderò, puttanamean?” he asks, butchering the Italian.

Marley gives me another piercing look. “It’s a threat.”

I clear my throat and choke out an answer, “Literally translated, it means ‘I will kill you, whore.’”

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