Page 110 of The Mistletoe Kisser
“Ellery, go away,” Ryan insisted.
“Not until you open your gift,” she said firmly. “It’s the least we could do since you pulled your accountant magic and filed that audit extension for the town.”
“You did?” Sammy asked.
“It was one dumb form,” he said dryly. “Blue Moon has three months to compile the reporting to the state with no penalties if everything is in order.”
“I can’t believe you did that for us,” Sammy said.
“Yeah. Yeah. I’m a hero,” he said. “Now open this damn thing so we can get back to being alone and almost having sex.” Ryan slipped his fingers in the seam of the wrapping paper and shredded it open.
When the gift came into view, Sammy nearly dropped it. “Oh God.”
“It’s your very own Beautification Committee Nude Calendar,” Ellery said proudly. “We’ve raised almost $800,000 so far. Just imagine the matchmaking resources we can afford now.”
Sammywasimagining, and it made her feel a little ill.
“Great. Bye, Ellery,” Ryan said, trying to shoo her out of the doorway.
“Oh, baby brain!” she said, tapping her forehead. “I almost forgot to thank you for taking care of Edgar for me.”
“Edgar?” Ryan was incredulous.
She whistled, and Stan the sheep trotted up to the door. It baa-ed and flicked his tail in greeting.
“You didn’t!” Sammy brought her hands to her face, forgetting she was holding the calendar. The view of Gordon Berkowicz’s flat white ass on the cover had her losing the blanket again.
“Aww! Look at those love bites,” Ellery said, staring at Sammy’s chest. “Nice job, Ry. High five.”
Scrambling, Ryan grabbed Sammy around the waist and tucked her behind his back. “You listen here, Queen of the Damned—”
Ellery curtsied. “Aww, thank you! How sweet!”
“Not a compliment.”
Ellery shrugged. “Agree to disagree.”
“Wait a minute. Did Dr. Turner even have food poisoning?” Sammy asked.
“Nope. He’s vegetarian, by the way. No hot dog eating contests for him,” Ellery said with a smug smile.
“I can’t believe this. I almost ran over that poor sheep just so you could pull strings?” Ryan was getting himself worked up. “What kind of a fucked up—”
“Don’t be silly,” Ellery said, waving his concerns away. “Edgar was never in any real danger. We had Ernest Washington rig the front sensor on your little tiny car while you were inside. You didn’t get within six feet of my sweet little sheep.”
“But the thump? The limping!”
Sammy put her hand on Ryan’s back to calm him.
“Wilson Abramovich is an excellent shot with a water balloon, and sheep are very intelligent. You can train them to do tricks just like horses. Watch. Hey Edgar, limp!”
The sheep toddled down the walk toward Ellery’s jacked up hearsemobile, limping like he’d broken his leg.
“Good boy! Now play dead!”
Edgar flopped over on his side and rolled until all four hooves were in the air.
“He’s so smart, isn’t he?” Ellery beamed.
