Page 3 of The Detective's Secret Santa

My heart thunders in my chest.

I shouldn’t be able to recognize her voice with only a string of syllables. I shouldn’t be able to, not after three years apart, but I do. Because it hasn’t been three years. Not even close.

Brooklyn.

As far as anyone knows, we haven’t seen each other since Greg’s funeral. She has no idea that I’ve been keeping tabs on her this entire time. That I’ve sat one booth away when she’s been out on dates, vetting her possible suitors. Or that I’ve watched her when she’s been out late with friends, ensuring she made it home safe and sound. If she ever found out what I did to her boss, she might hate me. Which is why I made certain she never once saw me enter the building where she used to work. I’ve always stayed out of sight. Something I’ve gotten very good at in my line of work.

“Let me help,” I insist, removing the stack from her outstretched hands and following Molly to a serving table opposite the front desk.

“Bash?” Brooklyn gasps.

“Hey, Brooklyn.” I don’t dare look back at her until I regain my composure. It’s no coincidence that I requested an early check in at the same time as the local bakery delivery. I needed this run-in to feel like a complete surprise. Coincidental, not calculated.

“Wh—what are you doing here?”

“You remember Bash Fraser, right Brooklyn? He’s a detective. And he’s come to visit us for Christmas, haven’t you?” Molly offers, her tone cheerful as ever.

“Right. I have.” I’m a little thrown at how easily Molly accepts my sudden appearance in town, but I’m not going to question it.

“Are you staying here, at the hotel?” Brooklyn asks, nervously tucking long, dark hair behind her ears. The rosy color in her cheeks might be from the cold, but I’d bet my truck that some of that pink color is for me. The memory of our meeting three years ago, however bad the timing, is burned into my memory. It was the first time I noticed Brooklyn Malroy as a grown woman. The spark of desire from then twinkles in her eyes now. My dick twitches against my zipper. Down boy. Not the fucking time.

“If there’s a room available.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Molly scolds. “You’ll be staying at the house.”

“I don’t want to impose.” But, really, I do. Anything to be closer to Brooklyn. Even if it means I’m going straight to hell for thinking it. Nothing can ever happen between us. I bet Greg would fucking haunt me if I touched his daughter. I steal a quick side glance at the curvy beauty, tempted to chance the wrath. There are moments I know I’d risk certain death to embrace her naked body, pressing it against mine. To feel those tits smashed up against my chest. Moments I hold close to the vest lest anyone figure out my dark, dirty secret.

“You’re practically family, Bash,” Molly continues. “And I have an open guest room. It’ll be nice to have some noise in the house this Christmas. Brooklyn’s home again and you’ll be here—it’ll be perfect. I insist you stay with me. Greg wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Brooklyn looks away, but I don’t miss the flash of grief in her brown eyes.

Though this has been my plan all along, I was fully prepared to stay at the hotel should it have been necessary. If I had any sense, I’d decline Molly’s offer. But the hope in her pleading eyes does me in. It’s not as if Brooklyn will be sleeping in the same house. She has her own place. It should be just enough distance to keep her close and behave myself. “Well, if you insist.”

“I do.” Molly entire face glows as she finishes arranging the cupcakes and spins to face Brooklyn. “Are you finished with your shift?”

“This was my last delivery for today. What do you need?”

“Good. Go get Bash settled in at the house.”

“But Mom, I can’t—”

“Clean towels are in the dryer. You’ll see that Bash gets one?”

The dread in her eyes is comical, because behind it is the hint of desire I suspect we both feel. Yeah, Santa is skipping the naughty list with me and sending me straight to hell. Because there’s no way I’ll be able to keep my hands to myself. All Brooklyn has to do is ask, and I’m signing up for a lifetime of getting coal in my stocking.

3

BROOKLYN

The afternoon sun has thankfully melted most of the ice that coated the roads previously, allowing my Mustang to roll up the mountainside road to Mom’s house without a hitch.

Small victories.

A glance in the rearview mirror promises Bash is right behind me, causing me to tighten my grip on the steering wheel. No matter how tightly I squeeze, though, my fingers still tremble. This whole thing is insane. How the hell did Wilma know Bash Fraser was going to be in Alpine Valley an entire day before he arrived? From the conversation earlier—the one I was too stunned to actually participate in, so I simply stood there silent and dumbfounded—Bash didn’t plan this.

“Stupid rumors,” I grumble.

Ever since I pulled his name out of the gift bag yesterday morning, I’ve been thinking about the man nonstop. Thoughts naughty enough to promise me coal for Christmas for the rest of my life.

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