Page 3 of The Humbug Holiday

Now I was more curious than ever. My mind started spinning as if I could somehow piece together the author’s identity with just a few measly clues. Books, movies, and a series on a cable network…geez, I thought I was doing all right, but a workshop in Fallbrook with a sideline handyman business didn’t compare to bestseller lists and Hollywood-caliber success.

The dull stab of pain for the life I’d walked away from in New York City caught me off guard. I furrowed my brow, feeling irritated with myself.

Or with Cameron. I couldn’t decide.

Didn’t matter. He was still a dick for letting his elderly aunts lift heavy shit and manage his life. Or…maybe he physically wasn’t able to do those things and I was being weird for no reason in particular. It had to be the nutcrackers. I was allergic to too much holiday shit.

My smile felt forced now, but my tone was unfailingly polite. “What’s his last name?”

Mary paused in front of the door just off the hall, tapped lightly, and shot a playful grin my way. “Warren. Cameron Warren.”

No idea.

Zilch.

But the way she swung that door open with one arm extended and her toe pointed like an ancient ballerina indicated that I should have been impressed…and honored ’cause I was about to meettheCameron Warren. I wished I’d asked more questions and thought of googling him before coming by. Someone in town must have done some research. Maybe Mom told me and I’d tuned her out. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

I stepped into the office and zeroed in on the shadowy figure tapping away on his keyboard behind the massive desk. His silhouette didn’t offer any clues to his identity, other than dark hair liberally salted with silver and a well-trimmed beard. And he was obviously engrossed in his work.

I scanned the room, noting the intricate carvings on the ceiling. They matched the ones on the mantel above the fireplace where embers glowed and crackled. I wandered toward the heat instinctively, then turned to study the tall bookshelves with a movable ladder lining two walls. They were filled to capacity with an eclectic collection of classic tomes, well-loved paperbacks, and knickknacks, like collections of miniature soldiers and snow globes.

A thick red Persian rug anchored the space under the desk and floated to the lip of the fireplace under two worn leather club chairs draped with wool plaid blankets. The only things missing were a dog, a bar cart, and a box of cigars.

The office was warm and cozy…and very inviting. I had no doubt it was the nicest room in the drafty old house.

I glanced over to the huge bay window opposite the desk with a view of the snow-blanketed garden as Mary announced our presence.

“Hi, there. Give me two…” Tap, tap, tap. “…seconds.”

“No hurry, honey. Joe the carpenter is here to check your crack,” Mary declared.

The typing stopped, followed by a slight choking sound.

I bit the inside of my cheek and turned as the silver fox with twinkling blue eyes, broad shoulders, and a fit bod stood.

So this was the infamous Cameron Warren?

Christ, he was hot. And big.

I’d bet he was in his midforties, possibly pushing fifty. A very well-preserved fifty. Other than a few smile lines around his eyes, he didn’t have any wrinkles. Or maybe they were hidden under that perfectly trimmed beard or—

Hang on—hedidlook familiar.

Maybe I’d read one of his books or seen his photo on a display at the bookstore on Main Street or on the Internet. No, that didn’t ring any bells. If he said he modeled athletic gear for a muscular forty-five and older crew, I’d believe him. And I’d buy that shit up in a heartbeat. Or not. I liked french fries and burgers a little too much to aspire to zero percent body fat. Not that he was thin. He was sturdy and strong-looking and…just right.

Fuck, I was staring at him.Damn it.

I cleared my throat and stepped forward with my hand outstretched. “I’m Joe Linton. Pleased to meet you. Welcome to Fallbrook.”

Ugh, I sounded like a dweeb.

“Thank you. I’m Cameron Warren.” He pulled his fashionable reading glasses off as he stood, continuing in an amused tone, “And apparently, I have a crack problem?”

I chuckled softly. “I don’t handleallcrack problems, mind you, but…I noticed moisture over the basement window directly below your office. It appears to be dripping from the inside of the wall. It might be the window casing or fascia or…a leak in the roof.”

“This house is old. I suppose it could be anything,” he replied.

“Well, show him around, Cam. I’m going to get a head start on decking the halls,” Mary singsonged.