Henry is my oldest sibling, the oldest of four, with the rest of us being girls. He shares my dark hair and blue eyes, but that’s where the similarities stop. He was a budding attorney up until a few months ago when he shocked us all by giving up law to open the aforementioned Holiday Lobster House. The career change was unexpected, but seeing him now—relaxed and in his element—makes me think he made the right choice.
Oh, he happens to be hot and heavy with Tipper Luxemburg, a woman from my murder club, but I push both his quasi-questionable choice in girlfriends and my murder club to the back of my mind for now.
“Are those”—I squint over at the dessert being advertised—“apple-cinnamon lobster rolls?” I ask as my voice rises an octave.
“With pumpkin aioli,” Henry confirms with a grin as he waves us over. “Try one before you judge, Hattie.”
“That sounds about as appetizin’ as my third husband’s cookin’,” Peggy declares, but she’s already reaching for a sample.
Clarabelle snags one, too. “Stranger things have happened. Remember when the minister’s wife put pickle juice in the communion wine?”
“That was you, Clarabelle,” I remind her, cautiously accepting my own lobster abomination.
“Was it?” She shrugs. “Well, it certainly livened up the service.”
To my shock and mild horror, the sweet-savory combination actually works. The tender lobster meat balances with the warm spices, and the pumpkin aioli adds a creamy richness that ties it all together.
“Oh my word,” I moan through a bite. “Henry Holiday, you’re either a culinary genius or completely insane,” I tell him. “Quite possibly both.”
He winks. “Tipper helped with the recipe.”
Before I can ask about his new girlfriend’s influence on his cooking—or the rest of his life—a familiar warm hand slides around my waist. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is—the clean scent of cedar and something distinctly his own gives him away.
“Sampling the competition?” Killion asks, his breath warm against my ear.
I spin in his arms and happily take in the sight of him. Killion Maddox is caustically handsome in a way that should be illegal—or at least comes with a warning label. His dark hair is slightly tousled from the wind, and those verdant green eyes shine like beacons. He’s wearing his usual attire of dark jeans and a button-down shirt under a leather jacket that hugs a body that looks like it could stop a freight train, let alone a bullet.
In a word, Killion Major Maddox ishot. And in another word that describes him best, he’smine.
“Henry has created a fall lobster roll monstrosity that’s actually delicious,” I tell him. “You might want to hurry and try it before your detective taste buds get a tad too suspicious.”
He takes a bite of the one I offer and his expression moves from skeptical to surprised. “That reallyisgood.” Killion looks stymied by this, as he should. Lobster isn’t typically found in most bakeries.
“Don’t sound so shocked.” Henry laughs. “Some of us have talents outside of arresting people.”
“Oh hon.” Peggy waves him off. “Killion doesn’t arrest people unless Hattie tracks them down first,” she teases with a wink.
“Very funny.” Killion gives a short-lived smile, although we both know it’s true.
A tiny laugh bubbles from me as I rise up on my toes and kiss the poor man, tasting cinnamon and apple on his lips. It’s brief but sweet enough to make my heart skip. Killion has a way of doing that despite the fact we’ve been dating well over a year now. And as soon as I pull back, Killion lands his lips to mine once again and kisses me as if he’s leaving for battle in the morning.
Peggy lets out a wolf whistle that would put actual wolves to shame. “Now that’s what I call a greetin’! Clarabelle, why don’t any men kiss me like that anymore?”
“Because you scare them off with your vulture-like approach to dating,” Clarabelle says without missing a beat. “You swoop in, pick them clean, and leave nothing but bones.”
“Oh, they like it and you know it,” Peggy shoots back. “You’re just jealous because I’ve had four husbands and you’ve only had two.”
Clarabelle belts out a belly laugh. “Quality over quantity, my dear.”
Peggy opens her mouth to retort, but suddenly stops, her head tilting like a hunting dog catching a scent. “Shhh!” She holds up one bejeweled hand. “Listen to that. I think that’s a Southern accent in distress.”
We quiet down enough to hear something floating this way, and it sounds like raised voices coming from around the corner of the cider booth. And sure enough, one has a distinctive Southern lilt to it.
“That’s my people,” Peggy declares, already moving toward the commotion. “Why, I think someone needs savin’ from a Yankee.”
Peggy takes off and we follow, rounding the corner to find two women locked in a heated argument beside a display of elaborate pastries.
One of the women is plump with auburn curls going gray at the temples, her vintage cat-eye glasses sliding down her nose as she gestures emphatically.
