A Lime Flavored Crime (A Beach Bakery Cozy Mystery Book 3) by Rosie A. Point

Author:Rosie A. Point [Point, Rosie A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-10-17T00:00:00+00:00

Twelve

My insides turned icy cold. Who was at my front door? They sounded vaguely familiar.

“Elly Dumas?” The man’s voice was muffled, but not unfriendly.

Meow paused her purring and peered between my legs, yellow eyes focused on the door.

“It’s okay, Meow,” I whispered.

“Hello?” Another knock. “I can hear you in there.”

Relax. It’s just a visitor. “Who is it?” I called out.

“It’s Paxton Thatcher.”

Paxton Thatcher was at my door? “What— Uh, what do you want?”

“To be let in would be first prize. I don’t want to be caught standing outside your house, given the news that dropped this morning.”

That got me moving. I unlocked my cottage door and let him into its cozy interior. Meow darted off down the hallway and disappeared into my bedroom. He took a step inside, larger than life in my small living room with its attached kitchenette. He swept an imperious gaze over my comfy beige sofa, my TV set, and the sliding doors that were shut but gave a view of the path down to the beach, between trees and shrubbery.

I checked outside the front door, but there weren’t any cameras waiting to take my photo. I locked up then backed away from Paxton, frowning. “I— Sorry, but I didn’t exactly expect a visitor today, and definitely not you.”

“You say that like I’m an unwanted guest.” Paxton pressed a hand to his cream buttoned shirt. His sleeves were rolled up, and he wore a pair of slacks. Not island-chic, but looking like he was about to go to a business-casual event.

“No, nothing like that,” I said.

“You okay?”

“I mean, I guess.”

“Your nose looks broken,” he said, leaning in and studying me like I was a bug under a microscope. Or, perhaps, a tricky clause in a contract was more apt in this case.

“Yeah, I fell.”

“You should cover that up with makeup,” Paxton said. “If the paps see you walking around with a broken nose, they’ll go wild.”

“Uh, look, Mr. Thatcher,” I said, nearly choking on his cologne and feeling bad for it. It was probably an expensive designer scent. “What are you doing here? No offense, but I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, let alone talk to you.”

He walked through my house, then sat down on my sofa and neatened the stack of books on my coffee table. He rearranged the remote controls next.

“Mr. Thatcher?”

“Call me, Paxton,” he said, then removed his phone from his pocket and set it on the table, beside the remotes. “Struggling to get comfortable today.”

“Paxton, why are you⁠—?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I get it. I’m here because I feel bad for you.”

I folded my arms. “Thanks.” The word came out sardonic.

“Not what I meant,” he said, turning his head to look back at me. “Sit down with me. We need to talk.”

The people-pleaser in me wanted to do as he said and offer him refreshments while I was at it, but I’d started growing a backbone, and this celebrity had invaded my personal space. Sure, I’d pried into his life, but that was a different issue entirely.

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