The Girl in the Mist (Misted Pines 1)

“Officially?”

“All the forehead kisses, etcetera, don’t count.”

His beard twitched.

I pulled a bit away from him (but not too far).

“However, as an authority on this, seeing as I successfully raised two stunning, perfect, wonderful, strong, capable girls, and upon some sleuthing today, which others might erroneously refer to as—” I did air quotation marks, “—stalking, I got a look at Will. And I don’t like him.”

“You got a look at him.”

“Through the window at Aromacobana.”

“You got a look at him through the window of a coffee shop.”

“Yes,” I confirmed.

“And you’re raising your banner on this.”

“Yes.”

“Can I ask what has your intuition sparking?”

“I don’t like the look of him.”

“Explain.”

“He’s tall and handsome.”

Bohannan stared at me.

“I know both of those sound good. You just have to trust me.”

“Reading between these lines, you’re telling me this so I’ll tell my daughter she can’t date the guy she’s been crushing on since sixth grade. The guy who finally noticed her and asked her out. The guy whose sister was just murdered, and she has a soft heart, and she would want to be there for him, and now she gets to be there for him. You want me to tell that daughter she can’t date this guy and find some way to do it without laying you out that I’m telling her that because you don’t like the look of him.”

“Obviously, this sounds impossible, so we have to form a plan.”

“Babe, you do know that doing that, no matter how awesome a plan we form, is gonna lay me out with my girl.”

“Okay, how about just say, until you sort out Alice’s killer, she has to stay at home unless she’s at school.”

Another eyebrow raise.

“You think that’ll go over better?”

“Bohannan—”

He turned to me and pulled me into his arms.

“Larue, listen to me, Celeste isn’t my first rodeo. I learned with two boys, who, growing up, and sometimes still, have more testosterone than brains, what a heavy hand in parenting means to a kid. You gotta let them make their own mistakes.”

“Cade, honey, listen to me,” I said softly, lifting my hands to curl them around either side of his neck. “When it comes to dating, the consequences of mistakes a boy could make, and a girl could make, can be two very different, very life-altering things.”

His head ticked.

And his voice was growly when he asked, “You got that vibe off the kid?”

“I do not like stereotyping. I avoid it. It’s not just. It’s not right. But that doesn’t mean some aren’t earned. To mix metaphors, he’s the cock on the walk with a bird on a string. He has the perfect pressure point to push to get what he wants. Maybe I’m wrong and all he wants is a beautiful girl to spend time with and to listen to him after something heinous happened to him and his family. Or he could be a piece of shit in a high school hunk disguise. At the very least, she needs someone to explain the intricacies of consent versus cajoling, and make it very clear only she gets to decide.”

“And that’s supposed to be me?”

I winced and noted, “You are her father.”

He let me go, turned to the windows, sat back, and for the first time since I’d known him, he looked flummoxed.

He was a great guy.

I was living with him and cooking for him (and his kids) and anxiously awaiting having sex with him, so he was, for all intents and purposes, my guy.

Damn it all to hell.

“I’ll talk to her,” I mumbled.

He turned instantly to me, eyes sexy and happy and victorious, and gathered me in his arms.

“You owe me,” I warned as his face disappeared in my neck.

“You got it. Once we tear the lid off, first month, every go, you get three orgasms to my one.”

His beard was tickly and his lips were firm on my neck too.

Lord.

“Can you do that?” I asked.

That was a mistake.

Because he pulled his face out of my neck and I liked it there.

Though, with the look on his face, I wasn’t complaining.

Wow.

He could do that.

“I’m celibate,” I announced. “I haven’t had sex in thirteen years.”

He blinked.

“Maybe fourteen,” I went on.

Bohannan didn’t move.

“So, no pressure,” I finished.

He growled.

I grinned.

And the mist clung to the lake.

Thirty

The Second Shoe

I stood at the sink, cradling a cup of coffee in my hands, staring at the lake…

Fretting.

Allow me to catch you up.

From our time cuddling in his sitting room to now, I’d been living with Bohannan for three weeks and three days.

It was nearing Thanksgiving.

Fenn had wrangled a miracle, and she and James were coming home on leave for the holiday.

That home being…here.

Even before Fenn and James made these plans, Camille and Joan had planned to come up. Though I suggested I go down, Camille would hear none of it. Joan would hear none of it.