Page 25 of The Most Wonderful Crime of the Year
Maggie understood the appeal. She’d woken to the sound of Emily and Colin arguing about where to put the ice sculpture for their annual party. Maggie hadn’t wanted an ice sculpture. Or a party. Or the big, fancy house the party was going to be held in—not far from where Colin’s parents used to live, back before they ran out of money.
Maggie hadn’t wanted any of it, but Maggie had been outvoted. So she’d retreated to a café to try to get two thousand words written because it’s easy to zone out in a chaotic coffee shop but not in your own chaotic house and Maggie didn’t even try to understand the difference.
“Please tell me you’re sitting down,” Deborah told her.
“Why?”
“Because this might be the phone call that changes your life.”
It wasn’t like Deborah to be hyperbolic, so Maggie was almost scared when she asked, “Change my lifehow?”
“You’re a finalist”—Deborah gave a dramatic pause—“for Betty’s Book Club.”
“Betty’s...”
“There’s a fifty-fifty chance that you will be the Betty’s Book Club pick for January. It’s down to you and one other author, but... You know what this means, right?”
It meant millions of copies. It meantmovie options. It meant that when strangers askedOh, have you written anything I might have heard of?from that point forward the answer might actually beyes.
“Maggie? Did you hear me? This is big, but it’s not a done deal yet, sodon’t tell anyone.” Maggie swore she wouldn’t and then she crammed her laptop in her bag and raced home to tell someone.
“Emily!” she’d called when she opened the door. “Colin!”
The house was full of flowers and chafing dishes and stacks of tables and chairs.
“Where are you two?” Maggie yelled, ignoring the ridiculous ice sculpture that someone had left dripping on the hardwood floor.
Then she heard the voices, hushed words, and frantic sounds from Maggie’s bedroom. They were moving furniture, her tired brain thought as she threw open the door.
And...
And...
And...
Deborah was right, of course. That phone call had changed her life after all.
Chapter Nineteen
Two Days Before Christmas
Maggie came awake slowly in the unfamiliar bed in the unfamiliar room with an unfamiliar bright light shining all around her. She was half tempted to draw the old-fashioned bed-curtains and go back to sleep but then she remembered.
England. Eleanor. Ethan.
Not necessarily in that order. So she threw off the covers and squinted against the glare as she looked out the window and gasped because—
Snow. Feet of it.Milesof it. Clinging to every tree and bush, covering the rolling hills like a layer of thick, soft cotton. It was pure and bright and looked like Christmas—the kind in the movies. The kind that isn’t real. But itwasreal. Maggie felt it in the cold that seeped through the glass and into her bones and made her whole body shiver. It was real, and Maggie didn’t know whether to be excited or apprehensive as she pulled on an extra layer and made her way downstairs.
Sir Jasper, Mr. Banes, Dr. Charles, and the duke and duchess were already at the table, sipping tea and eating breakfast, but every eye turned when Maggie entered, as if, on some level, they knew she didn’t belong there. And the problem was, on some level, Maggie knew they were right.
Of course, Ethan had never had that problem. “Good morning!” he boomed from the doorway. He must have been one of those people who can thrive on very little sleep because he practically bounded over to the sideboard and started piling food on his plate and, nervously, Maggie followed.
His hair was damp and he was wearing dark jeansand a plaid shirt and looked like an ad for a dating app that specialized in lumberjacks. Maggie gripped a warm plate in her cold hands and waited for the inevitable grin or smirk or wink, but nothing came. He didn’t tease or cajole. He hadn’t even glanced in her direction, and she thought about the look on his face the night before, the low soft wordsI could always pick you out of a lineup.
“Ethan?”
He kept his gaze on the sideboard, and when he spoke, the words were low and under his breath. “I’m hot while I’m pouring coffee. I’m charming while I’m dishing up eggs.”
