Paul came in around five looking worn out from a day spent Christmas shopping. "How did it go today?"

            "Busy in the afternoon, but fine." Leona set down the pen she was using to write out price tags at the counter and smiled up at him. "Margie called out again tonight, but Emma said she could come in for a bit if you needed her."    

            Paul loosened his scarf, his brow furrowing. "What do you think is going on with Margie?"

            "No idea." Leona hesitated, thinking about how worried Margie always looked now, when she thought no one would notice. "She hasn't been herself lately."

            "I could say the same thing about you, Jellybean." Paul chucked the underside of her chin gently. "You still pining for Iris?"

            "You know I don't pine. How was shopping?"

            "The usual." He smiled wryly. "Everything is badly made and overpriced and Mellon is impossible to buy for."

            Henry Mellon was Paul's longtime partner, now husband. Although Mellon was the most mild-mannered and amiable man on Earth, Paul always agonized over the best ways to spoil him. Even Leona thought it was cute.

            "What did you end up getting?" she asked.

            Leaning against the cash register on the customer side of the counter, Paul sighed. "A new sports coat."

            "Mellon loves those! Is it tweed?"

            "Yes."

            "Perfect. Mellon loves tweed." Mellon rocked tweed, in fact, particularly tweed jackets with elbow patches. He was a psychiatrist who leaned into the look.

            "I get him tweed every year."

"Your life is hard."

            "My life would be a lot easier if some silly child would buy my shop."

She made a face, happy to play the role of the obstinate teenager he had hired thirteen years ago.

            "Leona," Paul said, "come for Christmas this year."

"Paul..."

            He held up his hands. "I know, I know. Just think about it, okay? Mellon would love to have you over, and so would I."

He asked her every year, even though he and Mellon ran themselves ragged throwing a huge Christmas party for their families and many devoted friends. They didn't need Leona there, gunking up the social gears.

            "You are sweet," she told him. "But you know I like being on my own. I'm very independent. Enigmatically aloof, even."

            "Uh huh." Paul straightened up from the counter with a fond smile. "You're something, that's for sure."

            Leona changed the subject to the day's sales and the other details he needed to know to close up later. She loved talking to Paul about even the most mundane aspects of running the shop and was actually sad to leave. But her shift had ended half an hour ago, and, more importantly, she had to get ready to meet up with Simon.

            At home, she poured herself a glass of wine and meandered into her bedroom to change out of her black cigarette pants and tunic. She told herself not to be nervous about their date tonight. Dating wasn't her usual speed, but she'd enjoyed their dinner the night before, and she was sure she'd enjoy herself tonight, too. If she wanted something new from her life, she had to be willing to make changes.

After a certain amount of indecision, she pulled on a simple violet dress, figuring that it was classy without being too fancy for Thai food. She fussed with the apartment for a while, making sure it looked even more perfect than usual. Seven o'clock came and went. Pouring herself more wine, Leona thought that perhaps Simon would have to drive them to the restaurant after all. At seven-thirty, she was beginning to think she'd been stood up. More wine happened, followed by a dreadful reality show that she would've loved to watch and make fun of with Iris, if Iris hadn't moved away.

At eight, Leona decided to make risotto, still in her foxy dress and heels, just because she could. Girl power, said her third glass of wine. "Damn right," Leona told it. She splashed some wine into the risotto and stirred in fresh rosemary and chopped asparagus. Not very Christmassy, more of a spring dish, really, but so what?

Leona perched on the arm of her couch and ate a bowl of risotto. By nine, between the wine and the stupefying reality television, she was already starting to forget about Simon standing her up. So much for dating.

At the sudden clang of the doorbell, her heart clenched hard. She jogged down the stairs in her heels and flung the door open. Simon stood on the sidewalk, still in uniform, with his hat in his hands. The falling snow stuck to his heavy police coat.

"Leona."

Even in the dim light of a single streetlight, she could see the shadows under his eyes. "Are you all right? What happened?"

"Bad accident."

He didn't seem to know what else to say.

"Do you want some risotto?" she asked.

"Oh...sure. Thanks."

He followed her up the stairs into her apartment and the scents of wine and rosemary. She turned the television off and put on some music while Simon hung his hat and his police coat over one of her dainty dining room chairs. The reflective striping on his coat caught the light from her kitchen and flickered in the darkness.

She crossed into the kitchen to get him a bowl of risotto, but he caught her by the wrist and held her in place, staring at her violet dress. "You're not wearing black."

"I don't always."

Still gripping her wrist, he brought his free hand to her shoulder and drew his fingertips down the violet fabric, just before it met her skin. "I like it."

"Are you okay?"

His hand clenched tighter around her wrist, and he stared at her body with a pained, hungry look in his eyes. "No," he said finally, his voice soft. "Not yet."

"Tell me what happened."

He shook his head.

"Okay." She sighed. "Come here." She steered him toward the couch, sat him down, and fetched him a blanket, some risotto, and a glass of wine. Sitting down across from him in her accent chair, she crossed her legs and leaned back as if she wasn't at all worried by his haunted expression. As if nothing could touch them, now that they were here together.

It was what she would've done for Iris—what she had done for Iris, many times, when they were little kids. Every time Iris's mom flew into one of her rages, Iris would escape through the woods to Leona's house and knock on the screen door, her eyes huge in her small face. Since Leona's parents were never home, Leona would let Iris in herself, though she was barely tall enough to reach the door handle. She'd scrounge up some food for her friend, sit her down on the couch with a teddy bear, and tell her that everything would be okay. And it would be, even if Leona's only arsenal against the world was her own strength of will.

"This is really good." Simon gestured at the risotto. "Thank you."

He set his bowl on her coffee table and leaned forward, his muscular forearms braced on his knees. His pale blue gaze met hers. "You really are a nice person, Leona, you know that?"

She laughed awkwardly. "Are you trying to ruin my scary reputation?"

"Seriously," he insisted. "this is the second time you've been nice to me after I've been a dick."

"You haven't been a dick," she said, surprised. "You were just late. It's fine."

"Really?"

"Simon, I do realize that your job is slightly more important than mine."

"It's not like that."

"Please. It totally is, and it should be." She grinned. "I've had enough experience with the police to know that your work matters."

"Oh, God," he said.

Her grin widened. "Can I get you more risotto? Or anything else?" She started to stand, but he shook his head, staring down at her funky geometric carpet.

She was momentarily struck by the strangeness of having him in her apartment. Everything about him looked out of place, from his duty boots to his gun belt to his hair, only a fraction longer than a buzz cut. She ought to be annoyed at him for dirtying her carpet with his huge boots, but he looked so sad that she would have done anything to make him feel better.

She was losing her edge.

"So," she said, tentatively, "there was an accident?"

To her surprise, he answered her: "A car accident. A hit and run."

"A hit and run? Here?"

"That blind corner, over by Apple Mountain Farms."

"And someone was hurt? Do I know them?"

With a sigh, he slid his hands into his hair. "You know her. Knew her. Nancy O'Shea."

Leona sucked in a breath. "Our chemistry teacher?"

"That's right, you were in that class with me. Yeah. Mrs. O'Shea. She was a great teacher."

Leona hadn't missed his use of the past tense. Knew her. She was. "What happened to her?"

"She was out for a jog and got hit by, I'm guessing, a truck." His tone was blunt, even cold, but his hands shook. "She was...crushed. Almost unrecognizable. She had no ID on her, so we had to bring her daughter over to identify her by her rings." He swallowed hard, his throat moving.

"Jesus." Leona had liked Mrs. O'Shea and her goofy, well-meaning efforts to make chemistry fun for a lot of cranky Vermonters. Leona had met her daughter, too, on the handful of occasions when they'd run into each other downtown. Even Leona, who knew nothing about families, especially loving families, had been able to tell the O'Sheas were close.

Without quite realizing what she was doing, she set her wine glass down on her coffee table and touched Simon's hand where it rested on his knee. Gradually, she wrapped her much-smaller fingers around his. "I'm so sorry, Simon." The words were inadequate, but what else was there?

"I'm not..." He sighed again. "I've been a cop for a long time, but it's such a small town... I'm still not used to seeing stuff like that. Gruesome stuff. She was... It was like when you see a deer on the side of the road, but much, much worse."

Leona nodded, horror prickling in her throat.

"Anyway...the Chief is assigning me to the case, but I don't know why. He knows I dropped the ball on the bombing investigation."

"That was your case?" Simon hadn't been on the force for that long. It didn't seem fair to give him what had to have been Grenton's biggest case in decades.

"I asked for it," Simon said. "Before the bombing actually happened. I asked to help investigate the bomb threats that the vet's office kept getting. I muscled my way onto the task force with the state police and the feds. I was so sure I could figure it out."

"I'm sure you did the best—"

"No, I didn't," he said sharply. "I didn't figure out anything. And then the front desk got blown up, and that girl, Kristy Woods, would've been killed, if she hadn't decided to take a piss."

Leona had seen the gruesome news reports about Kristy Woods' injuries. Shards of her own desk in her legs and abdomen. Infections. Her life had been spared only because she'd been standing halfway between her desk and the ladies' room.

"But she survived, even it was just dumb luck," Leona pointed out. "Anyway, I thought everybody knew it was that girl's ex. I read it in the paper, right before she left town, that he'd been stalking her for years."

"He did stalk her," Simon said. "But there was no evidence that he was involved with the threats, or the bombing. That's why the case is still unsolved. He was our only lead, and it went nowhere. The State's Attorney's Office says there's no chance of prosecuting him."

"Well...that's not your fault, is it? What were you supposed to do?"

Disentangling his hand from hers, he stood up and paced her living room. "Anything—I could've done anything to keep moving the case forward, to drum up information. If I couldn't prevent the bombing from happening, I should've at least been able to find a decent fucking lead afterward. That's my job, but I failed at it."

"Failed at it? Why, because you're not fucking psychic? That is so—"

"This is my job." He faced her, folding his arms across his chest.

Frustrated, she stood up and matched his gaze from across the room. "You can't control everything that happens in this town."

"I can try."

Amazed at his stubbornness, she shook her head. "I've never met a bigger control freak than you."

"That's rich, coming from you. Have you seen your apartment?"

"What about it?"

"It looks exactly like your shop. I've never seen a place with less dust. And you don't have a single personal thing in here. No photos, nothing."

"You have to have a family to have family photos." As soon as she said it, she regretted it. She had already shared too much with him—they had shared too much with one another.

"I'm—I'm sorry. That was uncalled for." He took a step toward her, then stopped himself, dropping his hands in confusion. "Believe it or not, I really wanted tonight to go well."

"I know." She'd been wrong to assume he'd ever thought of her as Christmas charity. She should have realized Simon didn't say or do anything he didn't mean.

Slowly, carefully, she crossed the room to him. He still wouldn't look at her. Stress stood out sharply on his elegant features, but instead of aging him, it made him look younger, reminding her of the beautiful boy he'd been in high school, with his straight nose, sensual mouth, the broad planes of his neck and shoulders. She would've loved to get her hands on him back then, but she'd always told herself he wasn't for her. He was too good. Proper. Traditional. The kind of man who wouldn't want anything to do with her, or what she liked.

She wasn't so sure about that anymore.

Last night, she could've sworn he'd wanted her to touch him. To take the initiative. And now, he was standing perfectly still, almost at attention, without meeting her eyes. She could sense his longing, his need.

She touched his stern, irresistible mouth, trailing a fingertip from his top lip to his bottom lip until his chest rose in a quick, stilted breath.

"You're right about me," she said. "I know what it's like to try to control everything around you. To make it perfect, the way you want it to be."

At his side, his hands twitched, as if he were going to reach for her, but once again, he restrained himself.

So interesting, she thought hazily. That restraint.

She cupped his face in her hands just like she'd wanted to last night, and scraped her palms across his five o'clock shadow to the curves of his jaw. His eyes finally met hers, blazing with desire.

"Simon," she said. Her head spun with the questions she should ask him. The parameters she should lay out for him.

She kissed him.

With a soft groan of relief, he wrapped his arms around her, his hard muscles digging into her sides. He gripped fistfuls of the back of her dress, tugging the hemline up around her hips. She couldn't stop herself from kissing him harder, exploring his mouth with her tongue, sucking his lip between her teeth. She wanted him like she hadn't wanted anyone in years.

He broke the kiss with an embarrassed exhale that was not quite a laugh, his breath hot on her lips. His hands still gripped her dress. "You—you know how to lead."

She couldn't deny it, and wouldn't. "You don't need to be the one in control with me. Let me lead, so you can relax. Just this once."

*******

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Thank you for reading!
London