Page 33 of A Very Killer Christmas
He’s made enough money in his money-laundering operation slash online business to close on it just two months ago, and we’ve just managed to furnish everything to our liking in time for Christmas. Rowley did most of the work, while I did most of the thinking and deciding.
And then, he rubbed my feet. Every night.
The house is beautiful, as if plucked right from my dreams. It’s enormous, with six bedrooms all together. That’s Rowley’s biggest dream—to fill them with kids.
“Hear that?” I ask as Sarah gurgles happily, listening to the carol. “Daddy’s singing! Isn’t his voice beautiful? Yes, it is! You have the best daddy in the world.”
I pick her up and go downstairs. Rowley’s cooked all day, preparing a huge feast for tomorrow. I steal a ginger cookie from the bowl on the table, and he turns to us with a huge smile.
“Oh! Stop. Right there. Don’t move.”
I frown in confusion, but do as he says. Rowley puts away his knife—a wide, impressive blade he’s used to slice carrots—and comes over, wiping his hands on a towel hanging from a loop on his apron.
He wears aprons now. This one is black and sexy like most of his clothes, and the words “Killer Chef” are embroidered in red on the front. I had it custom-made for him.
“Look up, baby,” he says with a sizzling grin that never fails to make me melt.
I already know what I’ll see. Mistletoe hangs right above me, one of about a dozen Rowley’s spread around the house.
“Close your eyes,” he murmurs, taking Sarah from me. “And kiss your husband.”
The kiss is slow and sweet, nothing too racy, yet it has my heart pounding with anticipation. It’s a promise of a sensual evening, and I sigh happily, savoring the taste and scent of my gorgeous husband.
“And you, too, little angel.”
He drops a loving kiss on Sarah’s forehead. Claus, our large, black dog, gets up from his comfy bed in the corner of the kitchen and trots over. Rowley laughs.
“You want a kiss, too? All right! That’s a good boy.”
He smooches Claus on the top of his head, and I laugh happily. Rowley got Claus a few days after we moved out of my hometown. He was in poor condition, his muscles atrophied from insufficient activity, fur matted, body weak from an inadequate diet.
Rowley said he’d met him on that fateful Christmas Eve when he ran from the police. He’d been plotting to free Claus ever since, but could only do so after we moved out to avoid suspicion.
Now, the dog is thriving. We walk him twice a day, and he can roam our big yard at will. Rowley cooks for him, too, meticulously following a diet from a dog nutritionist.
He says Claus could have barked when he saw Rowley that night, but didn’t. He saved him that night, just as I did, and so, he’s now a part of our family.
I crouch down to scratch him behind the ears. “Yes, you are. A very good dog,” I say with affection. “Very smart. Aren’t you? Yes, you’re so smart! You recognize a good man when you see one, don’t you?”
Because Rowley isgood.He takes care of us with pleasure and a smile on his face, he donates to charities, and supports the local dog shelter.
So beautiful. So good. And all mine. I smile and get up to kiss my husband, who is the most perfect Christmas gift I could ever wish for.
