“So, it’s a prescribed drug? Maybe he accidentally overdosed.”
“According to his physician, it wasn’t prescribed to him.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” I murmur. “Sounds like this case is heating up faster than Aunt Cat’s love life after three mulled wines.”
Speaking of heating up, we’ve demolished our food mountain with impressive efficiency. Even Watson, who technically wasn’t supposed to get any table scraps, looks satisfied as he settles into a post-meatball nap under the table.
“What do you say we walk off some of those calories?” Cooper suggests, gathering our trash.
“Are you implying I ate too much?” I challenge.
“I’m implying thatIate too much, and if I sit here any longer, I’ll fall into a food coma.”
“Fair enough.”
We dispose of our trash and venture back into the festival grounds with Watson trotting happily at our heels.
The Frost & Frolic Festival has transformed into a magical wonderland in the twilight hours. Strings of white twinkle lights flicker against the darkening sky, and vendors have lit smallbonfires that cast a warm glow over the snow-covered grounds. The carnival rides on the far side of the square have come alive with colored lights and so have the screams of those foolish enough to hop onto them.
“Now this”—Cooper says softly into my ear— “is worth the price of admission.”
“Careful, Detective. You’re starting to sound festive.”
“Blame the cider. It’s gone to my head.”
We wander through the crowded pathways hand-in-hand as we sneak barely there kisses every now and again. And it drives me crazy in the best possible way.
“Check that out.” Cooper points to a small clearing where couples are ice skating on a temporary rink. It looks like something out of a Christmas movie, strung with lights and surrounded by evergreen trees.
“Oh no.” I back up. “I don’t skate.”
“Everyone skates,” Cooper counters. “It’s just a fancy way of walking on knives.”
“That’s the part I’m concerned about.”
“Come on, Eff. Live dangerously.”
The irony of a hitwoman being afraid of ice skating isn’t lost on me, but some fears are rational. Like the fear of slicing off your own fingers with footwear.
“What about Watson?” I try.
“He can watch from the sidelines. Can’t you, buddy?”
Watson wags his tail like the little traitor he is.
“Fine.” I sigh. “But when I break something vital, you’re nursing me back to health.”
“Deal.”
We rent skates—Cooper somehow knowing my shoe size without asking, which is both sweet and vaguely concerning—and make our way to a bench near the rink. Watson sitsobediently nearby with his red bow still festive against his golden fur.
“Why do I feel like I’m strapping guillotines to my feet?” I mutter, lacing up the once-white skates.
“It’ll be fun,” Cooper promises, standing with frustrating ease on his own blades. “I’ll hold your hand the whole time.”
“Is that a promise or a threat?”
I take his hand regardless, letting him guide me onto the ice. My ankles wobble immediately, and I clutch his arm with a death grip that would make Uncle Jimmy proud.
