Wine, Dine and Christmas Crimes by Maria Swan (brene brown rising strong .txt) 📕

I took a step toward the door and the book slipped from under my arm and hit the floor. “Shit.” Was the first word I uttered in front of the man of my dreams, while crouching down to pick up the package. That was when Dior seized the chance and leapt forward, the leash slipped off my fist, and I ended up on my rear end while the crazy Great Dane rushed out to join the prancing horse for an evening to remember.

“Fiat, wait, let me help you.” Tristan was next to me, on the cushy rug.

If his intention was to help me up, it failed. He dropped the round stiff brush he had been holding. It landed next to the wrapped gift. Tristan did take my hands and started to tug, but somehow, I’m sure without malice, he pulled me against his chest instead.

And who could complain? After spending months concocting the wildest scenarios between Tristan and me, and then we accidentally fall into each other’s arms? It just happened, accidentally, and I felt too numb to fully appreciate the irony of all.

Outside, our crazy pets caroused loudly, but the sounds seem to come from a different world, a different dimension. All I could think of was how warm and comfy Tristan’s arms felt while my brain conjured up a temporary forgetfulness as to why I had come to his home.

“The book,” I mumbled, my lips so close to his that it made my head spin.

He blinked. “Book?”—his voice slightly husky, crammed with emotions. His heartbeat thumped against my chest.

“Yes, the book.” I craned my neck, as finding the gift had become an urgent task, and just then Dior rushed in from outside, once again bumping into me at full speed. He kept going while a voice called from the dark foyer, “Hellooo, anyone home?”

We both froze, looked at each other. If my eyes spelled disappointment for the unwanted interruption, his held so much anger that I almost felt sorry for Celine. Her voice was both unmistakable and despised—by both, judging by Tristan’s reaction.

I pulled back; he resisted. I shook my head. Our eyes met, held. His arm released me, but not his eyes. Another step back, our fingers still touching.

“Oh, there you are.” Clip-clopping her way through the room, Celine looked like a dream girl in red. Dressed for the season, of course. Dior kept running around at full speed, drooling along the way, and I could hear Tache snorting just outside the French door.

“How did you get in?” Tristan asked, but that didn’t slow her pace. That honor went to Dior who bumped her just as he had me earlier. She shrieked and stopped to check her nylon encased left leg. “Can’t you control that stupid beast of yours?”

This wasn’t going well. I sensed Tristan’s frustration, and I grabbed the leash of my prancing dog and ran from the room, through the foyer, and out the front door, pulling Dior who wasn’t happy with my decision.

“Fiat, wait.” Tristan’s voice reminded me that I left his present on the floor. I kept moving, and as we crossed the gate all the Christmas lights came on. I turned to look at the storybook scene behind me. Behind me. Again.

Celine’s frosty blue Sebring was parked in front of my hot pink Fiat 500. That b***h, she knew I was in the house. Lois and Angelique Dumont probably hadn’t locked the front door, so she let herself in hoping to surprise us. Well, she did. All the pent-up emotion and anger bubbled below the surface. I got Dior into the car, went around, and sat in the driver’s seat.

Okay, Monica, it’s you and your buddy. No one else is looking. I wanted to scream—at life, at Celine who seemed to have life by the tail, at another lonely Christmas Eve. But instead I rested my forehead on the steering wheel and sobbed while Dior, feeling my pain, nuzzled my hand. Even in my state of emotional need I knew deep inside that Celine’s impromptu visit hadn’t sat well with Tristan Dumont. I thought that if his anger produced quills, judging by the tone of his voice, he must have been pretty prickly when he asked her how she got in. And with that picture in mind, I started the engine and headed to the IN-N-OUT burger at Tatum and Cactus.

EIGHT

BY THE TIME I turned onto our street, the neighborhood houses looked bright and colorful thanks to the decorations lighting up the evening sky. Not that Dior cared much about that, the smell wafting from the IN-N-OUT bag drove him batty. Living five minutes from the drive-through may have saved me from a hungry Dane attack. Oh, look, Officer Clarke’s car parked smack in front of Brenda’s house. Shit. I drove up the shared driveway, but to make it easier to get Dior from the Fiat and into Brenda’s back door I didn’t go into the garage. No idea if Brenda was home or not, although having seen Bob’s empty car, I assumed he would be comfortably seated on Brenda’s couch.

I assumed wrong.

Brenda opened her back door and came to greet us and take charge of her dog. I was still fiddling with the safety belt, so I handed her the fast food bag. “What’s this?”

“For Dior. I promised.”

“You—promised. Dare I ask why?”

“For being a good doggie,” I said in my baby voice, while images of Dior on his hind legs barking at Tristan’s horse and running around like a maniac knocking people down crossed my mind. I chased them all away. “Even while very hungry, aren’t you, baby? So I bought food, for both of us.”

Brenda stepped back and looked at Dior, his leash firmly held in one hand and the white and red bag of fast food dangling from her other hand. “Us? Meaning...?”

“Me and Dior. I doubt you and your friend Bob would care to share our greasy burgers and fries.”

She shook her head.