Page 2 of The Detective's Secret Santa

“Yep.” I hand over the clipboard and take the offered gift bag. “How does this work?”

“Instructions are in the bag.” Wilma offers me a sweet smile. “Thank you for participating, Brooklyn.”

“Thank you for—”

Wilma’s attention is stolen by a woman at the opposite end of the table in a furry red coat and matching hat. I think it’s my second grade teacher, Mrs. Smithers. Uncertainty mixes with the need for another good cry, and I frown. I know I’ve avoided Alpine Valley, especially since Dad passed. But once upon a time, I recognized nearly everyone. Guess it’s going to take a few more bakery deliveries to refresh my memory.

Walking toward the door, I fish in my gift bag for the promised instructions. My fingers meet a firm rectangular card and I pull it out. But it’s not instructions. It’s a name.

Sebastian Fraser.

“What?” I gasp quietly in surprise. I stare at the card, as if the letters will rearrange themselves. Because the man listed on the card doesn’t live in Alpine Valley. I haven’t seen him in three years. Not since Dad’s funeral.

An involuntary shiver races through me. The kind of shiver that will put me straight on Santa’s naughty list. Because the last time I saw my dad’s best friend, I was thinking very inappropriate thoughts about him.

I hurry back to the table, waving Wilma down until she comes over.

“There has to be a mistake,” I insist. “This person doesn’t—”

“There are no mistakes, dear,” Wilma says firmly, that sneaky-sweet tone impossible to argue with. Or maybe it’s the twinkle in her eyes that has me momentarily speechless, too caught up in the rumors about the woman playing matchmaker at Christmas. “Now scoot along so I can help everyone else. And be sure to read all of the instructions. It’s very important to follow the rules.”

With those words, she whisks back into action.

I drop the name back into my bag and slip outside. The cold air is a welcome shock to my system, forcing everything that inappropriately warmed me to chill the fuck out. The name doesn’t mean I’ll actually see Bash Fraser. That’s impossible, right?

“Probably for the best,” I mutter as I drop into my Mustang, convinced I only need to dig up his address and mail him whatever I’m required for this Secret Santa thing. Because if I end up face-to-face with him again, I might do something really foolish.

Like throw myself at him.

I start my car and pray that it’ll back up without giving me a fuss. “Good thing he’s not in town, right?”

2

BASH

The last time I was in Alpine Valley, it was to honor my best friend and mentor, Greg Malroy. The world lost a good man much too soon. He was my mentor, and for many years, my best friend. The loss ripples through me as I pull up to the double sliding doors of the only hotel in town. The urge to keep driving until I reach the highway tugs at me.

But it’s no match for the tug that forces me to brake.

The tug that is Brooklyn Malroy.

It’s more than the promise I made to Greg that I’d watch out for his daughter. More than anyone can ever know.

“Sebastian Fraser?” a warm voice calls as I step inside the hotel. “I don’t believe my eyes.” Greg’s widow, Molly, comes around the front counter to give me a hug. When she pulls back, unshed tears glisten in her eyes. “You didn’t tell me you were coming to town,” she says, adding a playful swat to my arm. I’ve missed her superpower. That ability to lighten the mood with the simplest of gestures. One of the many reasons the Malroy house was the closest I ever felt to being home.

“It was a last minute decision.” It’s not entirely a lie. I know Brooklyn’s been safe at home these past few weeks. Safer than she ever was in Houston. I had planned to let her enjoy the holidays with her family before I dropped into town and checked on her. But when the local mayor called me up to discuss an offer, I packed a bag and headed north the same day like a man possessed.

“How have you been, Bash?” Molly asks.

“Good as usual.”

“Still no ring, I see,” Molly says, unapologetically staring at my hand in that motherly way she’s always had with me. I guess me being a few years younger than her late husband brought that out of her. Or the fact that I never had much of a mother to begin with.

“You know I’d never get married without inviting you to the wedding.”

“Where are you living these days?” Molly asks, retreating behind the counter.

I’m saved from answering the question that could very well incriminate me when the double doors slide open. A fuzzy green hat sticks out over a stack of baking boxes. “Where do you want these?”

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