Leona was late, which Simon found especially irritating since they lived two streets apart. When his buzzer finally rang, he went outside to find her on his front porch in a fitted black pea coat, a black knit hat, and black, lace-up, high-heeled boots. He wondered if she ever wore colors. Yesterday in the shop she'd been wearing a black sweater with a neckline that had almost touched her pale white throat. It had distracted him completely.

"Hello, darling," Leona said. "You look as lovely as a rose."

Simon gave her a leveling stare. "Same to you." Unlike Leona, he actually meant it. A black rose, with frost clinging to the petals.

He shook his head. What the hell was wrong with him?

Last night, as he'd lain in bed, staring at the ceiling, he'd thought about the way she'd traced her fingertip down his cheek, about her laugh and her scent and her strange, hypnotic hold on him. He wondered if anyone else would've convinced him to go home, the way she had. Or if he would've stayed there all night without her, contemplating the lake.

"This is Lulu." Leona stepped aside to reveal the car parked next to Simon's cruiser. Simon's jaw dropped.

"Is that a Mustang?" In the wan glow of the Christmas lights, he could just make out its cherry-red paint and white racing stripes. The car practically preened. "I didn't know you were into cars." He couldn't remember ever seeing her drive.

"I'm into this car," Leona said, opening the passenger-side door for him and chivalrously gesturing him inside. "I got Lulu after she was in a tiny accident and the then-owner was too chicken to keep her."

"Oh, God." Simon buckled his seatbelt. "So, in the snow, she's...?"

"Terrifying," Leona replied, as she slid into the driver's seat. "Fortunately, it's not snowing."

"Great," he said sarcastically. "I feel really safe."

Leona laughed as she started up the car. Its engine roared to life. Simon had to restrain himself from feeling up the dashboard.

"So, where are we going?" she asked, as she put on some mellow, instrumental music, which was, once again, not what he'd been expecting.

"I made reservations at that Italian place in Montpelier."

She nodded. "Is that where you take all the ladies after you've been—what did you call it? 'Kind of a dick'?"

"I'm not usually a dick at all."

"I feel so special."

God, she got under his skin. "I had a bad week," he insisted. "I swear I'm not an asshole." At least, he hoped he wasn't. Sometimes he wondered.

"Oh, I bring assholery out in people," she said airily. "I'm well-aware of that. It's a life-long habit."

He shot her a concerned glance. "Don't say that." He'd heard some rumors about Leona while they were still in high school. Her childhood. Her parents. He didn't want her to think she ever deserved to be treated badly.

"You don't need to worry about my tender little feelings, I promise." She cast him a slight sidelong smile. "I'm surprised you remembered where I work," she added, after a moment. "I've never seen you in the shop before."

"Small town," he grunted.

"So you haven't been secretly admiring my beauty through the shop window all these years?"

In spite of himself, he laughed. "Actually, a few weeks ago, I saw you standing in the window, making some kind of display. You looked like an extremely cranky mannequin."

"Yes—the hummingbird mobile!" She whacked her steering wheel. "Fifteen insanely breakable, hand-blown hummingbirds. My nerves were shot. I'm sure your job is stressful, but until you've had to hang fifteen glass hummingbirds in a rickety bay window, using only bits of plastic that refuse to turn into proper knots, you don't know what stress is."

Simon laughed again. "I believe it. I would not be able to do that." He wasn't clumsy, but the sheer breakableness of Leona's shop was nerve-wracking. "You seem like you like it there, though." He hadn't missed the loving, proprietary way she'd laid her hands on the counter yesterday. She cared about her shop the same way he cared about the town as a whole, as if it were a living, breathing thing.

"The shop is the best," she said, with a big smile. "So is Paul, and the merchandise. I even like most of the customers, and I'm nothing if not a misanthrope."

She'd always been so gleefully self-deprecating. He'd never been able to tell how much of it was an act.

"How about you?" she asked. "You like being a cop?"

"Yes. It's...it sounds lame, but it's my calling." Too bad he sucked at it.

"Your dad was a cop, too, right?"

"Chief. Thirty years in the force."

"Following in your old man's footsteps."

"Yup." Simon had always idolized his dad, and he still did, mostly. He'd grown up enough to realize the man wasn't perfect, but he was a good dad, and he'd been a great cop before he'd accepted early retirement at the age of fifty-five, thanks to a bad back. Now Earl Labelle spent most of his time hollowing out canoes, fishing, and being handsy with Simon's mom, Audette.

"Is this it?" Leona asked. "Veni, Vidi, Vino?" He nodded and directed her toward the parking lot. She rolled her eyes. "Thanks, Officer."

They walked inside to opera and candlelight. He told the host about their reservation and glanced at Leona when the host asked if he could take their coats. Her eyebrows rose, but she shucked off her pea coat without comment. Underneath, she wore more black, of course. Her short dress had see-through black lace at the neckline and shoulders, teasing the smooth column of her throat. "You look—really nice," he managed.

She frowned at him. "Thanks."

The host led them to their table, which was set back in a quiet corner, partially hidden behind cascading ivy.

"This is nice," she said, as they sat down. "Best random dinner ever."

"You haven't tried the food yet."

"Is that a warning?"

"More like a promise." He had no idea where that had come from, but she didn't seem to mind. She brushed her long hair back from her neck, smiling to herself, her lashes smoky smudges. Her fingernails were painted cherry-red, like her car, and he wondered what her pretty hands would look like against his skin if she touched him again.

A waiter came by and asked for their drink orders, tearing Simon away from his thoughts,

"I'll have a cabernet sauvignon, please," Leona told the waiter. "And the gentleman will have, I assume, whiskey?"

"Uh, no. Water's fine." He had a feeling it was time to lay off the booze again. He thanked the waiter and turned back to see Leona, as usual, smirking at him.

"Not planning on indulging tonight?" she asked.

"No."

"Darn, I was hoping I might get another dinner out of this." Her smile widened.

"I'll have to make an ass of myself some other way."

"Oh, good, I love surprises."

He bet she did.

"So," she continued, picking up her menu, "there's no girlfriend to be driven wild with jealousy at the sight of you with a strange woman?"

"Not even with a woman as strange as you."

She arched an eyebrow at him over the top of her menu. "Cheeky."

Their drinks arrived, and they each ordered pasta courses and entrées. She was, unsurprisingly, decisive about what she wanted and a lot more adventurous than he was.

After the waiter left, she fixed him with that appraising stare again. "Seriously, though—how can you not be hitched? Practically everybody else in town paired up in high school."

It was a strange card for her to play: he couldn't remember ever seeing her dating anybody. She'd always seemed to be somewhere else—taking off right after class, skipping proms and socials. "You're not hitched," he pointed out.

She made a face. "Well, no, not me, obviously. But you—you're a catch. For the right kind of girl, anyway. A nice, submissive girl."

"'Submissive'? What's that supposed to mean?" Like he was some kind of bully?

"You know, big macho cop, likes to give orders..."

"Maybe I like strong women. You really have a bad opinion of me, don't you?"

"Not at all." She grinned at him as if he were missing out on an inside joke. The tips of his ears burning, he glowered at his water glass, wishing he'd gotten a drink after all. He had always tried to be the kind of man who had a plan for every situation, but apparently that did not include a single interaction with Leona Chaisty.

Sometimes the best defense was a good offense. "What about you?" he demanded. "Why aren't you with someone already?"

Slowly, deliberately, she licked a drop of red wine from the lip of her glass with the very tip of her tongue. Simon's stomach tightened. "I've been with lots of guys," she said. "But so far, no one's kept my interest."

"Lots of guys." He realized he was gripping the tablecloth in his fist and forced his fingers to relax.

"Lots." Her voice pitched low and husky.

"How many is a lot?" he ground out.

She leaned back in her chair, still holding her wine glass in one slender hand. Candlelight shimmered across her lace neckline, highlighting glimpses of her skin. "Does it matter?"

It didn't matter—of course it didn't. It was none of his business. But he still wondered who she'd been with. If he knew them. What she'd done, what she liked.

The waiter returned to their table, set down their plates of pasta, and scuttled off, leaving them alone in their quiet corner once again. Simon's pulse was pounding so hard he would've bet Leona could hear it.

"Let me guess," she drawled, "you've had a small number of long-term girlfriends, who were all basically lovely. And you dumped them all, eventually. Why, though, I wonder? Too clingy?"

Simon stared at her. She had known where he lived; she might have noticed him around town more than she'd let on. "How did you know that?"

"It was a guess? Have you heard of guesswork? I imagine it's a pretty big part of policing."

Fair enough. "Three," he admitted begrudgingly. "Three long-term girlfriends. And a couple of flings. And yeah, I always ended things." As soon as they complained about how much he worked, or looked upset when the Christmas gift turned out to be earrings instead of an engagement ring.

He couldn't imagine Leona doing either of those things. But then, Leona was different—a maneater, if there ever was one.

"I love being right," she remarked.

"No kidding."

Simon's phone vibrated inside his pocket. He grimaced. The one time in his life he didn't want to be interrupted by work. "Hold on." Pushing back his chair, he went to take the call somewhere more private.

*****

The rest of this chapter will be up on Saturday! Thank you very much for reading <3

xoxo,

London