Page 47 of Skin and Bones

“If your reputation is already safe,” he said softly, the words hanging in the air between us like a question. “We might as well push the limits a little. See if we can find the Mabel McCoy who breaks the rules and tests the boundaries of what’s been built around her.”

A thrill of excitement shot down my spine at his words, and I found I wanted to test the boundaries very, very much. He stepped closer, his hand coming up to cup my face with a gentleness that stole my breath. He gave me time to step back, to say no.

I didn’t.

His lips met mine, and the world tilted on its axis. The kiss was gentle at first, almost questioning, but when I made a small sound of surprise, it deepened into something more urgent, more demanding. His hand slid to the nape of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair as his other arm wrapped around my waist, drawing me closer until I could feel the solid wall of his chest against mine.

I found myself responding with an enthusiasm that would have mortified me if I’d had the capacity for rational thought. My hands gripped the front of his shirt like I was drowning and he was the only thing keeping me afloat. The taste of him—wine and tea and something uniquely, intoxicatingly him—flooded my senses until I could hardly remember my own name.

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing as if we’d run a race. His eyes were darker than I’d ever seen them, pupils dilated in the dim light of my entryway.

“I think that cocoon of yours is starting to crack, Mabel McCoy,” he said, his voice rough with something that made my knees threaten to buckle beneath me.

Then he was gone, the door closing quietly behind him, leaving me standing in my hallway with my fingers pressed to lips that still tingled from his touch. My pulse thundered in my ears, each beat sending a wave of heat through my body until I felt feverish with it.

Chowder waddled up beside me, looking up with what could only be described as canine judgment, his wrinkled face somehow more disapproving than usual.

“Not a word,” I told him, my voice unsteady, barely recognizable as my own. “Not one word.”

He snorted and turned, heading toward the stairs with a dismissive swagger that clearly communicated his opinion on the matter.

I stood frozen for a moment longer, listening to the sound of Dash’s car as it started and pulled away from the curb. Through the window, I watched his taillights disappear down Harbor Street, wondering what exactly I’d just gotten myself into. Ten years of carefully constructed widowhood, shattered by a single kiss that felt more real and forbidden than anything I’d experienced.

As I moved through the house turning off lights and straightening chairs that didn’t need straightening, I couldn’t help the smile that kept tugging at my lips. Snippets of melody escaped as I belted out “I Feel the Earth Move” by Carole King all the way up the stairs. I had no idea where it had come from. My music memory didn’t really extend past the 1950s.

I stripped out of my dress and touched the silk of my nightgown, but I left it hanging over the back of the chair and fell face first into bed naked. I might not know exactly who Mabel McCoy was beneath all those carefully constructed layers, but for the first time in a very long time, I was looking forward to finding out.

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

My lips were still tingling when I unlocked The Perfect Steep at five thirty the next morning. I’d gone to bed with the ghost of Dash’s kiss branded on my mouth and woken up with it still there, like a secret I couldn’t quite keep to myself. Every time I thought about it—which was approximately every thirty seconds—my stomach performed elaborate somersaults.

The early morning routine helped ground me as I prepared for another day of serving tea while apparently also becoming an amateur detective. The scent of cinnamon and bergamot wrapped around me like a comforting blanket as I moved through the pre-dawn quiet, measuring loose tea leaves and warming ovens. By the time I’d finished baking scones and setting out the displays for the day, my regular morning customers had begun filtering in—Howard from the bookstore for his Earl Grey, Mrs. Pinkerton for her chamomile, and the construction crew from the harbor renovation seeking coffee.

For ten years, I’d been Widow McCoy, keeper of Patrick’s memory and purveyor of fine teas. It was a role I knew how to play, comfortable as my vintage dresses and just as carefully preserved. But last night, standing in my foyer with Dash’s hands cupping my face, I’d felt something crack open inside me—something wild and unfamiliar that had nothing to do with being a widow and everything to do with being a woman.

And it terrified me more than finding a cockroach in my lingerie drawer.

“I’ve got you under my skin…” I sang softly as I measured loose tea leaves with precision, trying to focus on the familiar rhythm of opening tasks rather than the memory of Dash’s voice, rough with something primal, saying he was looking forward to watching me break free of my cocoon.

Chowder waddled in from the back room, where I’d set up his bed for the early mornings. He ignored me completely, making a beeline for his food bowl, snuffling and grunting with single-minded purpose. His entire wrinkled body communicated one clear message—breakfast trumped whatever human drama I was experiencing.

“Well good morning to you too,” I said, pausing my tea measurements to fill his bowl. “At least one of us has priorities straight.”

Chowder didn’t even look up, his focus entirely on inhaling his kibble like it might escape if he didn’t eat it immediately.

“Romance isn’t on your radar, is it, buddy?” I asked, returning to my tea. “Smart dog.”

The bell above the door jingled as Walt pushed his way in at ten o’clock, after the morning rush had cleared out. His Navy veteran cap was perfectly positioned, giving him an air of military discipline that even his eight decades couldn’t diminish.

“The sheriff called us for a Silver Sleuth reconnaissance update,” he announced, making his way to his usual table by the window with purposeful strides. “The others should be here momentarily.”

“Morning, Walt,” I said, setting down a cup of his usual Earl Grey, the steam curling upward like a question mark. “How was your morning?”

He eyes swept the room with practiced efficiency. “Good. We should operate with an abundance of caution. Have you noticed anyone paying particular attention to the shop this morning?”

“No one’s been lurking around or paying special attention to us,” I assured him.

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