“Easy.” Cooper laughs, steadying me. “Bend your knees a little. That’s it.”
Slowly and perhaps far too cautiously, we make our way around the edge of the rink. Cooper is annoyingly good at this, gliding with the kind of effortless grace that makes me wonder what other hidden talents he’s keeping from me. I, on the other hand, move like a newborn giraffe trying to navigate a slip-and-slide.
“Now you’re getting it,” Cooper encourages as I manage a few strides without nearly toppling over.
“Don’t jinx me,” I warn. “I’m one compliment away from asking Santa for my two front teeth.”
As if on cue, my right skate catches on something—possibly air—and I pitch forward. Cooper’s arms wrap around my waist, pulling me against him before I can hit the ice. We slide together, a tangle of limbs and momentum, until my back meets the rink wall and Cooper’s body presses against mine, pinning me there.
Our breath forms a cloud in the cold air between us. His face is inches from mine, those blue-green eyes dark with something that has nothing to do with solving crimes.
“Nice save,” I whisper.
“I’m full of surprises,” he murmurs back, one hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from my face.
And then he kisses me, right there on the ice with Christmas lights twinkling overhead and “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” playing from nearby speakers.
It’s the kind of kiss that makes me forget all about murder investigations and hit assignments and dirty old men marrying Cooper’s sister. The kind that makes my toes curl inside these death-trap skates. And that I fully approve of.
We pull apart and Coop nods my way. “My place or yours?”
“Yours,” I decide quickly. “My heat’s been acting up.” Among other things.
He gives a little shrug. “I think we can bring the heat.”
And we do just that—but notthat. Get your head out of the gutter.
But between my uncle’s hit list, a dead Bianchi, and whatever storm is brewing at the Velvet Fox tomorrow night, I have a feeling the real inferno hasn’t even begun.
CHAPTER 9
The Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery smells like the entire Christmas season exploded inside it—cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, and vanilla hanging so thick in the air you could practically swim through it. The scent clings to my hair, my clothes, and probably my DNA at this point.
Lily’s Christmas playlist jingles through the speakers for what must be the five-hundredth time this season. If I hear “All I Want For Christmas Is You” once more, I might stuff myself into the industrial mixer and hit puree.
“Order up,” Lottie calls from the kitchen, pushing through the swinging doors with a tray of miniature gingerbread houses. Each one is meticulously decorated with royal icing, candy canes for porch posts, and tiny wreaths made of green M&M’s. They’re so perfect they make me want to cry—or gobble the entire tray down with a glass of ice-cold milk. Hard to say which urge is stronger. Okay, fine, so we all know which is which.
“That’s another dozen for the Westfield order,” she announces, setting the tray on the counter. “And we still have twenty more to go before closing.”
“Remind me again why I agreed to help with the holiday rush?” I mutter, piping a snowflake pattern onto what feels like my millionth sugar cookie of the day. My fingers have cramped into the shape of the piping bag. I’ll probably need surgery to straighten them out.
“Because you love us?” Lily suggests, arranging peppermint bark in a display case.
“Because Lottie feeds you all the free dessert you can eat?” Suze offers from her station where she’s rolling out more gingerbread dough.
“Because it’s better than spending the day plotting murder?” Lottie adds with a wink that’s a little too knowing for comfort.
I point my icing bag at her threateningly. “Watch it, Lot, or I’ll start aiming this thing like a weapon.”
“As if you could hit anything,” Suze scoffs. “I’ve seen your aim. It’s not impressive.”
She’s not wrong.
“Those were intentional near-misses,” I defend myself. Uncle Jimmy might not agree, but what he doesn’t know won’t get me fired from the family business.
The bell above the door chimes as another customer enters, and we all look up and groan at the crowd. Leading the pack is one of our regulars, Mrs. Finkelstein, bundled in a coat so puffy she resembles a walking marshmallow, and her Pomeranian, Cupcake, who’s sporting a red and green doggy sweater with actual working lights.
“Good morning, ladies!” she chirps. “I’m here to pick up my gingerbread mansion.”
