Page 70 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"Eleven," Mr. Jackson says. "I'm the town lawyer; I can't witness crimes."
"But you can commit them?" Finn asks.
"Allegedly commit them," Mr. Jackson clarifies.
My apartment door opens again—does no one knock anymore?—and my cats, Amelia Dyer, and Lizzie Borden, race in followed by my neighbor.
"Your cats were in the hallway," she explains. "They seemed upset about the smoke."
"The smoke has been handled," I assure her.
She turns, shaking her head, and walks away.
"Can we focus on the actual problem?" I plead. "I have to go to this gala tomorrow, pretend everything's fine, face my ex-boyfriend with his yacht and his teeth, all while the man I thought I was falling in love with is actually a corporate raider named after his own evil company?"
"Pierce is a family name," Finn says reasonably. "He didn't choose it."
"He chose to lie about it," I counter.
"True," Finn admits. "But his callus is real."
"One callus doesn't fix this, Finn! Nothing is going to fix this!" I exclaim.
"It's a very impressive callus," Teddy says supportively. "I saw it up close. Definitely earned through actual work."
"Are we really defending him based on a callus?" I ask the room.
"We're defending him based on how he looks at you," Delia says quietly.
The room falls silent. Even Giuseppe stops whatever he's doing with the pasta remnants.
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"I've been documenting facial expressions for the committee records," Delia explains, pulling out another binder. This woman has more binders than an office supply store. "Look at this."
She opens to a page of photos, all apparently taken during committee meetings. Holden's in most of them, and in every single one, he's looking at me.
"These are creepy," I say. "You've been secretly photographing us?"
"For the archives," Delia says defensively, "but look at his expression."
I look closer despite myself. In every photo, Holden's watching me with this soft expression I've never noticed in real time. Like I'm something precious. Something worth protecting.
"That's just his face," I say weakly. “His corporate-spy face.”
"This is his face when he looks at other things," Delia says, flipping to another page. Photos of Holden looking at cars, food, and the committee members.
"He has different faces," June observes. "His Wren face and his everything-else face."
"People don't have designated faces," I protest.
"Look at the pictures," Delia insists.
I flip through a few pages, then shake my head. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. He lied."
"Everyone lies," Giuseppe says philosophically. "I lie about my ingredients all the time."
"That's concerning," June says.
