Page 72 of Always Murder

“Do you hear me?”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts.Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I do.”It looked like he tried to stop there.“But—”

“No buts.”I smoothed some of the hair back from his forehead and let it fall again.“Bobby, if you decide at some point you want to apply for that detective position, I will do everything I can to help you.I love you.I think you’re the best candidate for the job.And I know we can figure out a way to make it happen.But what matters is whatyouwant, because I want you to be happy.You don’t have to prove anything to me.You don’t have to prove anything to anybody.You need to do what’s right for you, and I promise it’s not going to change anything about how I feel about you.I love you so much.I loveyou, Bobby.And I’m so grateful you told me about this, because I want to know everything about you.I want to keep learning things about you and loving you for the rest of our lives.”

His eyes shone, and he blinked rapidly a few times.Finally, he said, “Okay.”

“Okay.”

The roar of the waves breaking on the bluffs grew louder.

“I don’t think I’m going to apply,” he said.“Not right now.”

I nodded.“Okay.”

He made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh.“Okay.”

“I know that was hard for you.I’m really proud of you.”

His eyes moved, as though he were studying me.Or looking for something.And then his face changed, like he’d found it—whatever it was—and he whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Bobby kissed me.

“I miss you,” I confessed.“I miss spending time with you.I know it’s not going to be like this forever, but I just wanted you to know how much I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”His hand slid along my waist.“And itwillget better.I’ll talk to the sheriff.I’m going to take fewer shifts.”

“That would mean a lot to me.”

He kissed me again, and a single, exploratory finger crept under the hem of my tee.

“I thought you were going to take a shower,” I said.

He made a sound as he slipped the rest of his hand under my shirt.It was a low-in-your-throat sound, a raise-the-hair-on-the-back-of-your-neck sound.And I was still feeling it, like electricity on my skin, when he kissed me again.

And that, folks—as they say—is all she wrote.

Chapter 22

The next morning, we spent Christmas Eve the way Christmas Eve should be spent: with sloth, gluttony, and the slow build-up of avarice.(Also, lust—but that’s more of an adults-only, mom-and-dad-have-to-wrap-one-more-present, don’t-peek-in-your-stocking kind of thing.) Suffice to say that after having Lots of Feelings, Bobby wasstillfeeling frisky.And after Bobby was frisky, I wanted to sleep until noon and then have someone hand-feed me snickerdoodles.

In spite of all those extra shifts at work, though—and all the friskiness—Bobby was banging around in the bathroom by nine, and at eleven, I was told, “Good morning,” in a way that was more command than question or suggestion.It was familiar from all our weekend hikes, when lollygagging and loafing were not to be tolerated.

In that weird way of adulthood, it hadn’t felt like Christmas—and now it did.Keme and Millie had decorated the house weeks ago, but the garlands and lights and sprigs of holly all seemed to catch my eye for the first time (not to mention the enormous Christmas trees that Keme had lugged around the house to impress Millie).The gray outside had cleared, and the day had a chiseled cold that felt like winter, and which made the snug warmth of Hemlock House even cozier.Indira was in the kitchen making peanut brittle, which meant the first floor smelled like hot sugar and peanuts and vanilla.Fox was “smoking” a bubble pipe and wearing a Victorian smoking jacket over a unicorn onesie.Keme and Millie, now fully reconciled, were canoodling on the chesterfield.In plain view, I might add.With smooching and whispering and giggling.Yes, even from Keme.

Bobby and I ate a small breakfast.(Okay,Bobbyate a small breakfast—he had a bowl of oatmeal, and he didn’t even put maple syrup on it.I, on the other hand, found half a pan of bread pudding, and declared Christmas Law—which means you can eat dessert for breakfast.) After we’d finished, and before my blood sugar could plummet, we hung the stockings on the billiard room mantel.The stockings were a new addition this year.Indira had produced them when the rest of the Christmas decorations came out, without any explanation.But they’d been knit by hand, and they had our names on them, and they were all the same shape and size.I wondered when she’d made them, and how long it had taken her.Bobby found some music on his phone.It was a mix of classic Christmas songs.Some Irving Berlin.Some Ella Fitzgerald.And of course, some Mariah Carey.I mean, we’re not monsters.

I was giving the stockings an evaluating glance, trying to decide if they were evenly spaced—and also wondering if I could convince Indira to let me have a go at the bacon, since I needed protein after all those carbs—when Bobby said, “I asked Paul about that card, the one you found at Three’s house.He said the last time he saw it, it was in his locker at work.”

It took me a moment to redirect my attention.“It was?”

“Sorry, I meant to tell you last night.”

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