Page 58 of The Spite Date (Small Town Sisterhood #1)

NOTHING SWOONIER THAN MURDER

Bea

By the time Simon’s murder mystery dinner arrives, I’ve almost forgotten that his whole intention was to upstage Lucinda Camille. I’ve been too busy seeing him and his boys at every opportunity to even care why he wanted to do it in the first place.

But the day of the dinner, I get a very solid reminder.

“Logan Camille seriously sat in the parking lot next to your burger bus all day ?” Daphne says as she drives us to Simon’s place now that the dinner is upon us.

“All day. Someone would start to approach, he’d make noise or stretch or something, and four out of every five potential customers recognized him and essentially ran away. Worst day I’ve had in like two weeks.”

“Such a fucking dick .”

“Either he’s mad that Simon’s upstaging his mother by hosting an invite-only version of her favorite event tonight, or Logan thinks it’s my fault traffic has slowed down for Jake’s restaurant.

Which is crazy. I’ve hardly thought about JC Fig at all since Simon took me on that spite date, and I definitely haven’t said anything.

Not anywhere near the way the Camilles trash-talk me. ”

She grins. “Who wants to think about a dumbass ex when you have the perfect rebound man coming by every day?”

I stare at her.

She slides a look at me. “What?”

“I don’t think this is a rebound.”

Her smile grows bigger. “Yeah, for the amount of time you’re spending with his kids too? It’s definitely more than that. Just wanted to make sure you knew it.”

“He’s just—he’s fun. And funny. And kind, but not in the way that makes me think he’s putting on an act so that I’ll like him. He’ll give me shit and also tell me I’m brilliant or marvelous , and sometimes he says things that make me feel like I’m…well, special.”

“Bea. Boyfriends are supposed to make you feel special.”

“And he’s doing a better job of it than any other boyfriend I’ve had before.”

“Impressive, considering how much you haven’t had sex since you started dating.”

“Lana’s mom’s went into the hospital with an infection a while ago.

She’s freaking out because she doesn’t know what’s happening, so Lana’s had to be at the hospital more or less full time.

It’s so sad, and so hard. So Simon’s been on solo parenting duty practically the whole time since he asked me to be his girlfriend. ”

“She deserves an entire spa week for what she’s been through.”

We lapse into silence because both of us know the only time Lana will ever have a full week to herself will be after her mom passes.

We make it to the driveway entrance before Daphne speaks again, and I’m not surprised when she changes the subject.

“According to my sources, there are at least nineteen rooms in this mansion, excluding the bathrooms. According to my knowledge of teenage boys, they won’t leave the basement if it has food and gaming systems, which it definitely does because Simon’s loaded and enjoys being able to buy his kids whatever they want for the first time in his life.

So that leaves like a dozen rooms for you two to sneak off to for a quick shag. ”

“Daphne. I’ve been in the house before.”

“Do the bedrooms have locks? Asking for me too. I’m fucking tired and might actually need a nap.”

There’s something going on with her that she’s not telling me. Something more than worrying about Margot.

I haven’t been pushing it when she lies to me, because I know she’ll talk to me when she’s ready.

Daph’s complicated sometimes. Who wouldn’t be with how she grew up and then was basically kicked out of her family?

She pulls to a stop at the gate, rolls her window down, and grins at Butch, who’s waiting with a clipboard. “Hey, I was just thinking about you.”

“I’m not interested in a second job as your on-site chef,” he says.

“His burgers are almost as good as yours,” Daphne tells me. “If he ever figures out your secret ingredient, you’re toast.”

I wave at him from the passenger seat. “Hey, Butch. Did you win or lose to get the gate job tonight?”

“Won.”

“Nicely done.”

“Thanks for driving a small car instead of your bus. Pull on through to the house.”

Daphne follows orders, and we wind our way up the driveway to park her Camry next to Ryker’s truck. We climb out of the car and follow a family of four toward the front door.

Simon’s home here is a three-story mansion, with a stucco exterior, a red-shingled roof, the courtyard and lawn behind where I’ve spent several evenings, and landscaping that hadn’t been kept up over the years before he bought it.

Now, the flower beds are freshly turned over, most of them brimming with young plants that make the beds lining the curved brick walk to the front door feel fresh and new. The stucco needs repainting, but it’s low on Simon’s priority list.

He has at least six years of living here when he’s not off doing his famous actor thing.

Which is still weird to think about.

He doesn’t feel like a famous actor.

He just feels like my very funny, very sexy, very kind, hot British boyfriend.

Daphne and I pass through a second security check at the door, where we’re each given manila envelopes with our names on them, and then are directed through the foyer to the hallway on the left.

The octagonal brick-colored floor tiles and the flowery wallpaper is the same as it was when Mrs. Young opened the house for Mr. Young’s wake.

“Remind you of your family’s vacation house in the Hamptons?” I ask Daphne.

She shakes her head. “Right size, wrong vibes.”

“How so?”

“It’s like someone died in here. And not in a murder mystery.”

“You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Mr. Young did die in here. Had dementia pretty bad in the end. Mrs. Young cared for him at home until he passed, and then she had his wake here.”

She points to a framed photograph sitting on a knitted lace doily on one of the side tables. “Is that them?”

“Yep.”

“Why does Simon still have their photos up in the house?”

“They were selling the house as-is, furnishings and all, and he’s put his focus on fixing up the bedrooms and the basement for a game room for the boys ahead of taking care of the common areas.”

“It adds quite the ghastly touch, does it not?” Simon strolls out of a room on the right to join us. He’s in a black suit with a crisp white shirt, his hair styled to look like he’s just rolled out of bed.

And he is, naturally, smiling widely in a way that makes my belly dip and my own smile pop out back at him.

“Welcome to the Grand Persimmon Hotel,” he says. “I see you’ve received the information about your rooms and your stay. I am Archibald Ninnington, and I shall be your host this evening. If there is anything you require, anything at all, please do not hesitate to request assistance.”

He puts one hand to my waist and kisses my cheek, and my entire body flushes with the contact. “And you may call me anything you wish, of course. That dress will never cease to be stunning on you.”

Yep.

The dress.

The red dress.

With the new panties he hand-delivered yesterday.

They’re also red.

The lace is more sheer.

And I’m not wearing a bra, because his kids are headed to a sleepover when the murder mystery dinner is over.

“Is this place haunted, Archie?” Daphne asks. She’s in a killer black dress that highlights her curves, and she spent an hour on her makeup and had her hair’s green and blue highlights touched up too.

“Certainly not.” Simon winks at her. “Or perhaps I should say, not yet.”

“I was going to ask if I could be the dead body, but I think I’d rather be the ghost.”

Simon still has his hand on my waist, and he’s drawing circles on it with his thumb and lighting my entire body on fire. “Four people have already asked to be the dead body.”

“How many want to be the ghost?” Daphne asks.

“Only you.” He shifts to look at me again, and his smile widens even more, as if he’s aware of the effect his hand is having on me. “Bea? Would you also like to be the dead body?”

I smile back. “Nope. I want to figure out who did it before anyone else. And I can’t do that if I’m dead.”

“Marvelous.” He beams at me.

I get tingly in all the good places to be tingly. I am so gone for this man.

“Are you the dead body tonight?” I ask him.

“Alas, my security team would have my head if I fooled them into thinking I were dead, so I must remain alive and healthy.” He drops his hand from my waist and gestures for both of us to go ahead of him.

“Do come in. We’re waiting for a few more guests before dinner can begin.

I highly recommend becoming familiar with all that our resort has to offer. And, of course, your roles.”

“Is there a prize for best actor?” Daphne asks.

“Does your host have two teenage boys who wish to be rewarded for everything from waking up in the morning to not breathing on one another when it becomes annoying?”

I smile so hard I’m almost laughing. “So the kids are participating?”

“Bah. The children have all escaped to the basement to play billiards and table tennis and air hockey and video games while gorging themselves on the entire supply of pizza from two different restaurants.”

“Good.”

“Indeed.”

I smile at him.

He keeps smiling at me.

Daphne pokes me. “C’mon, Bea. I smell appetizers. I don’t miss a lot about fancy parties, but the food . The food better be good. Like, you have no idea where my expectations are.”

Simon and I break eye contact.

Or more, he breaks eye contact to look at Daphne, blinking once like he’s forgotten who she is and why she’s here.

“The food is marvelous. As is the company.” He snags Daphne’s envelope. “I just remembered this packet is incomplete. I shall join you shortly with corrections.”

“Do the corrections require your computer?” I ask.

He barks out a laugh. “No, it’s been hung up worse than usual today, so I borrowed Lana’s laptop to put the finishing touches on our murder.” He smiles at me once more and presses a kiss to my forehead. “I’ll join you again momentarily.”

Daph and I both watch as he strolls the other way down the hallway and turns into another room that, if I’m remembering the floor plans right from my days of spying on the house’s listing, should be his office. I haven’t made it much past the living room or kitchen when I’ve been inside here yet.

“Is he turning me into a ghost?” Daph whispers.

My heart does that thing where it feels like it’s hugging itself.

I know he wrote the script for the murder mystery himself.

He told me so.

Called it grand fun in a text, in fact. And also confessed that it was putting him behind on his deadline for his contractually obligated script, but said that the break was good for his creativity and revisions.

He ignored me when I told him again to get a faster computer.

“I think he might be,” I whisper back.

And it’s making me swoon just a little more.

This is not a rebound.

This is the best relationship I’ve ever had.