Page 32 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“By abandoning dinner?” I’m indignant. “The least he could do is stay for the bread basket. I bet it’s fresh out of the oven and the butter is imported from overseas.”
Everett’s lips curve into that rare, genuine smile that still makes my heart do gymnastic routines in my chest. “No, Lemon. He stated the facts. He’s trying to hunt down the killer himself to clear his name. And he doesn’t want you involved.”
“He didn’t say that part out loud.”
“He didn’t have to. It was written all over his face.”
“Since when has what Noah wants ever stopped me?” I retort. “Besides, why all the secrecy? We promised no more secrets after all the pain we’ve put one another through.”
Everett arches one perfectly groomed eyebrow. “There’s only one reason I can think of—to protect you from something he’s ashamed of.”
“Like what? His terrible taste in Elvis impersonators? His secret collection of boy band memorabilia? What could be so bad that he can’t tell me?”
Our food arrives, and I stare down at my pasta, suddenly not very hungry—a rare occurrence since the twins were born. Usually, I attack food with the single-minded determination of someone who might never eat again.
“Well, more for us,” I say, trying to inject some levity. “Though I’m charging Noah’s steak to his room. If he’s going to bail on dinner, the least he can do is pay for the privilege.”
Everett chuckles with a warm, rich sound that vibrates through me. “That’s my sweet yet slightly vindictive wife.”
“I prefer the termjustice-oriented,” I correct him. “Vindictive implies I hold grudges. I merely ensure equitable outcomes.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” His blue eyes sparkle with amusement. “And here I thought you were just exceptionally good at creative payback.”
“That, too,” I admit, twirling pasta around my fork. “Remember when Carlotta borrowed my good stand mixer withoutasking and returned it with gum stuck in the beaters? The glitter in her hairspray was educational for all involved.”
“She sparkled for weeks,” Everett recalls. “I’d find glitter in the strangest places. Even my court briefings looked like they’d been attacked by one of Lyla Nell’s craft projects.”
“Collateral damage,” I say with a shrug. “The price of living with Carlotta—or a slightly vindictive wife.” I wink his way.
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes as the tension from Noah’s departure gradually dissipates. Everett cuts his steak with surgical precision, each piece exactly the same size—a habit I find oddly endearing. The man’s methodical in everything he does, whether it’s preparing legal briefs or slicing meat.
“Do you want to dance?” Everett asks once we’re through, nodding toward the small dance floor where a few couples sway to the pianist’s rendition of what might be a Sinatra song if Sinatra had been heavily sedated.
“Dance? Me?” I blink at him. “I haven’t danced since... well, since before I had two humans extracted from my body. I’m not sure my center of gravity has recalibrated yet. More than a few people so far have asked how far along I am.” I wince and Everett winces, too.
It’s true. It happened in the elevator twice after I spoke to Sherry. “I told them I doubt this baby will ever come out. I’m so big you’ll drop me.”
“I will never let you fall,” he promises, his blue eyes softening in a way that still makes my breath catch after all this time.
“That’s a big promise,” I warn him. “I’m basically a human Jenga tower at this point—one wrong move and everything collapses.”
“I’m willing to risk it,” Everett says, extending his hand across the table.
I place my hand in his and marvel at how his fingers completely envelop mine. “If I step on your toes, remember that you asked for this. Literally.”
He leads me to the dance floor with one hand resting on the small of my back—a touch that sends a familiar warmth spreading through me. For a man who presents such a stern façade to the world, Everett Baxter sure knows how to move. He guides me into a gentle swayand his body forms a protective barrier between the other dancers and me.
“You’re good at this.” I bite down on a smile as I look up at him. “Is there a secret dancing clause in the judge’s handbook I don’t know about?”
“Chapter seven, subsection B,” he replies with mock seriousness. “All judicial appointments must be able to execute a basic waltz and at least one form of Latin dance.”
“I knew it,” I say, fighting another smile. “The judicial system is just an elaborate front for ballroom dance competitions.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest, a sensation I feel more than hear. “You’ve discovered our secret. I’ll have to silence you now.”
“You could try,” I challenge, “but I’ve got twins with lungs powerful enough to shatter glass. They’ve already mastered the art of making sleep impossible. Imagine what they could do if they really put their minds to it.”
“A terrifying thought,” Everett agrees, pulling me closer. The scent of his cologne wraps around me—woody and warm with hints of something that’s uniquely him. It’s intoxicating in a way that beats any cocktail.
