Page 52 of The Mistletoe Kisser

“Holy shit,” Ryan choked, chewing rapidly.

“Sammy! I hope you’re saving me a wreath with naughty Santas,” Mrs. Nordemann announced with a flourish of her faux fur cape.

“Where did you come from? A trap door?” Ryan asked, peering over the wall.

Their visitor chuckled. “You must be Ryan. I’ve heard so much about your dry wit.”

“From who?” Sammy and Ryan said together. He gave her a good glare, and she shrugged back.

“You two are a hoot! I’ll leave you to your date,” she sang.

“Not a date,” he said.

“Definitelynot a date,” Sammy agreed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ryan demanded.

Mrs. Nordemann reached into her cape pocket and fished out her phone. She plunked her reading glasses down on her nose and peered at the screen. “I’ll just… ah, yes. There it is.” She pointed it at them, and Sammy heard the distinct sound of a camera shutter.

“Did you just take a picture of us?” Ryan asked.

“Don’t be silly,” the woman trilled, still frowning at her screen. Her thumbs moved at a snail pace.

Sammy checked her watch. It took almost a full minute before Mrs. Nordemann hit the last keystroke and triumphantly returned the phone to her pocket. “Well, I’m sure I’ll be seeing more of you two.”

“Why is everyone so interested in us?” Ryan asked.

She shook her head. “It’s a small-town thing. Don’t worry about it. As long as a goth princess doesn’t show up next, we’re fine.” There was no way the Beautification Committee was involved in Ryan losing his job, flying across the country, and finding himself in need of a ride. They were sneaky, but more Pink Panther than James Bond when it came to efficiency.

“You mean that goth princess or a different one?” Ryan pointed behind her.

“Damn it,” she hissed as she spotted Mason helping Ellery shrug into her floor-length ebony trench coat. “Don’t make eye contact.”

“Too late,” he said around a bite of mushroom cap.

“Sammy! Ryan! I didn’t know you’d be here for lunch,” Ellery said cheerfully. Her face looked even paler with the glossy purple lipstick and thick charcoal eyeshadow. She wore a black turtleneck and over it a tiered necklace made up of dozens of tiny daggers.

“Hi, Ellery. Hey, Mason,” Sammy said wearily. “Have you two met Ryan?”

“We were in the same aisle at the liquor store last night,” Mason said.

“I snuck Masey away for lunch before the big event this afternoon,” Ellery said, linking her arm through her husband’s.

Mason Smith was a khaki-starching, number-crunching, risk-avoiding man in his mid-thirties. He’d been brought to Blue Moon under false pretenses constructed by the Beautification Committee and somehow managed to fall head over heels in love with the gothic paralegal. They married on Halloween in the midst of an astrological apocalypse.

“My hubby’s an accountant,” Ellery told Ryan. “The grand opening of his firm is happening today.”

“What kind of accounting?” Ryan asked.

“Mostly small business,” Mason said. “Apparently, a lot of Mooners thought paying taxes was voluntary,” Mason said.

“Why does that not surprise me?” Ryan mused.

Sammy resisted the urge to kick him under the table.

“It’s my favorite ex-boyfriend and his lovely wife,” Emma said, strolling up with a stack of dessert menus in her hands. “Are you ready for the big ceremony?”

Ryan appeared to be watching the conversation with concern and vague interest, like a man sitting down to watch his first episode ofReal Housewives. But he didn’t realize what it meant to have two Beautification Committee members appear at the same time. Sammy was starting to get a bad feeling about this.