I take a deep breath and stare at the pistol.
Yep, it’s a gun all right, shiny and big and definitely capable of blowing a great big hole in my body.
As I lift my eyes to the woman’s face, there’s a flicker of recognition in the back of my brain. “Mrs. Grassnab,” I say. “Are you lost?”
“Don’t be cute with me, you little homewrecker.”
I grip the edge of the counter, fighting to stay upright and not to pee myself in terror. Holy crap, this is really happening.
“Mrs. Grassnab.” My voice shakes, but I keep my composure. To do what it takes to keep myself alive and un-shot. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. If you’ll just put the gun down—”
“There’s no misunderstanding,” she says. “I’m tying up loose ends.”
Her glossy blond hair slips over one eye, and she blows it off her forehead, never once lowering the gun. I keep my eyes fixed on her face, not daring to glance at the pistol.
“My husband is a serious contender to be President of the United States,” she says. “If you think for one second, I’m going to let that be derailed by some floozy coming forward with a scandalous love child—”
“I’d never do that,” I insist. It might not be smart to argue with a woman holding a gun, but Libby is no one’s scandalous love child.
“So, you don’t deny it.”
Crap. Was I supposed to? This is my first negotiation with a crazed person pointing a pistol at me, so I don’t know the rules.
I lick my lips and fight to stay calm. “Look, Libby is six,” I tell her. “The world’s sweetest, most gentle, generous little girl.”
“Who looks remarkably like my husband,” she says. “I had suspicions a few years ago, so I looked you up. I had you followed; I even watched you at the playground.”
Dear God, the woman is nuts.
Like I hadn’t already figured that out, but it’s clearer now.
She keeps going, since I can’t seem to find words of my own. “I thought at first I could scare you out of town,” she says. “Terrorize you into keeping your trap shut for good. But then you hooked up with the resort people, and it’s pretty clear you’re not going anywhere. You found your meal ticket, didn’t you?”
I force myself not to react. There’s no point sinking to her level. “I’d never breathe a word to anyone,” I tell her. “Doesn’t it mean something that I’ve kept my mouth shut? I’ve never asked for child support or even breathed a word to Wal—to Senator Grassnab.”
The flash of fury in her eyes tells me I’d be smart not to give her any reminders that I’ve been intimate with her husband. The memory of it sends a shudder of shame through me.
One more reminder of my horrible judgement with men.
“He doesn’t know,” she says simply. “About your daughter or about this little—complication. Sometimes a woman has to take matters into her own hands.”
Maybe I can play off her motherly sympathies. I’m a mom, she’s a mom, we have that in common. “My daughter needs me, Mrs. Grassnab,” I tell her. “Just like your children need you. Please.”
Fire blazes in her eyes. “You’ve met my children?”
“No! Absolutely not.” God, maybe it’s better if I don’t speak. Keeping my eyes fixed on her, I scan the room with my peripheral vision. There’s a block of knives over by the window, but that won’t do me much good from here.
“Please, Mrs. Grassnab,” I urge. “Put the gun down. We can pretend this never happened.”
She gives a bitter little snort. “Hardly. People come out of the woodwork all the time the higher someone climbs on the political ladder. I should have nipped this in the bud a long time ago.”
I glance at the weapon, which is definitely still a gun, and definitely still pointed at me. Swallowing back my fear, I try a different tack. “The police chief is in the next building,” I tell her. “He’s a friend of mine. The kind of guy who’d notice things like gunfire and bleeding bodies in the kitchen.”
“There won’t be any blood,” she says matter-of-factly. “I’ve thought this through.”
“Of course you have.” Just what the world needs, thoughtful murderers.
“If we do this right, there will be an unfortunate little kitchen incident,” she says. “A sink full of water, an electrical appliance, a—”
Boom!
I hit the floor, not certain what’s happened, but pretty sure ducking is the best move when a gun goes off. Covering my head with my hands, I look down at my body. No holes that I can see, and since my eyeballs work, I trust they’re still in my head, which is still attached to my body. All good signs.
“I’ll take that.”
Mark!
I snap my head up to see him plucking the pistol from Mrs. Grassnab’s hand like it’s a toy. The scent of gunpowder hangs thick in the air, but no one appears to be shot. She’s rubbing the side of her head where the door must have hit her, too stunned to protest.
“Give that back!” she demands. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
He ignores her and rushes forward to help me to my feet. “Are you okay?” His hand is firm and strong, and he lifts me like I weigh nothing.
“I’m fine,” I breathe, flinching as he whips the gun around to point it at Mrs. Grassnab.
“You,” he says. “Don’t move.”
She puts her hands in the air, eyeing him up and down. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding—”
“Oh, now there’s a misunderstanding?” My fury bubbles to the surface now that I don’t need to play polite anymore. “This psycho tried to kill me.”
Mark’s whole body is rigid, all six feet five inches of him. I’ve never seen him so furious. “You tried to kill my girlfriend.”
Mrs. Grassnab does her best to offer a who, me? look. “Don’t be ridiculous. I just came in here looking for the ladies’ room.”
I snort out loud. “With a handgun?”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” she says, flipping her hair. “If you’ll just put the gun down and stop looking all menacing, we can talk about this like sane, rational—”
“I’ve had enough of you.” Mark’s voice is surprisingly calm as he sets the gun on the counter. He gives it a distasteful glance, or maybe that’s for Mrs. Grassnab. Before she can make a run for it, he grabs her by the wrist and pulls her toward the wall with the aprons.
She sputters, stumbling in her high heels. “What are you—”
“I need you to sit still and shut up for a minute,” Mark says, yanking an apron off the pegs and making quick work of lacing the strings around her wrists. “I have something important I need to say, and it can’t wait.”
She sputters again as Mark cinches the apron strings tight behind her back. “If you have something to say to me—”
“Not to you,” he snaps, exasperation turning his voice into a growl. “To her. The woman I love, dammit.”
Wait, what?
He looks at me and frowns. “This isn’t how I saw this going.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “We can start over.”
He nods, gaze sweeping over my body. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Positive.” Did he say he loves me?
He steps forward and takes my hands in his. “Chelsea, I love you. I love you so damn much it scared the shit out of me, and I acted like an asshole.”
Behind him, Mrs. Grassnab scoffs. “This sounds like victim blaming. I was a therapist for years. No one makes you act like—”
“Shut up,” I snap, keeping my eyes on Mark. “You love me?”
“More than anything,” he says, squeezing my hands. “I’ve been afraid to open up because I wasn’t sure you’d like who I really was if I told you. I wasn’t sure I’d like myself, or even who I really was without—God, I’m botching this.”
“You definitely should have practiced,” Mrs. Grassnab observes. “You only get one chance to tell a woman that you—”
“Shut up!” Mark and I bark the words in unison, hands still linked together.
Mark squeezes mine and keeps going. “I’m not a real Bracelyn,” he says. “Not by blood, anyway, but I’ve realized it doesn’t matter. A name or a bloodline doesn’t make me who I am. And the guy I am when I’m with you is the best version of me I can be.”
“Oh, Mark,” I say, tears clouding my eyes. “I love you no matter what’s in your DNA. I love you for the guy you are, and there’s nothing you could tell me about yourself that would make me love you less.”
“Try having him tell you he’s been boffing bimbos on the side,” Mrs. Grassnab scoffs. “See how everlasting that affection is when he brings home chlamydia for the third t—”
“Shut. Up.” Mark glares at her, and this time, Mrs. Grassnab zips it.
He turns back to me, fingers still laced through mine. “I don’t know what’s going to happen with this resort or my family or any of this DNA stuff. But I know that no matter what, I choose you.”
A tear slips down my cheek, and I dash it away with my shoulder, not wanting to pull my hands from his. “I choose you, too. Always.”
“God, Chelss.” He pulls me tight against him, wrapping me in the biggest, warmest, strongest hug of my life. “I promise to let you in,” he murmurs into my hair. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Anything at all.”
“We’ve got time,” I tell him. “All the time in the world.”
He draws back, remembering our audience. “Speaking of time, someone’s going to be serving some.”
I frown at Mrs. Grassnab. “We should probably call the police.”’
“Won’t be necessary.” The door swings open and Austin strides into the kitchen. He’s flanked by Officers Studebaker and Leopold, both of whom have their guns drawn. “We tend to be summoned by gunfire.”
“Austin,” I breathe. “Is Libby—”
“Safe and sound and back at Mark’s cabin with Betty,” he says. He takes a step toward Mrs. Grassnab, nodding with approval at the apron-string handcuffs. “Very nice,” he says. “Your husband is on his way to the station right now. We’ve got questions for both of you.”
She mutters a string of unladylike curse words as Officers Studebaker and Leopold each take her by an arm and lead her out of the pastry kitchen.
Austin watches them go, then turns back to me. “We’ll have questions for you, too, but you’re free to go back to your cabin,” he says. “It could be a late night.”
“Not a problem,” Mark says, slinging an arm around me and pulling me close. “We’ve got lots to talk about.”
“We do?”
He nods. “Open, honest, no-bullshit, no-holds-barred, vulnerable as fuck conversation.”
“Oh.”
“From me,” he says, in case that wasn’t obvious. “I want to tell you everything, Chelss. I want to let you in. I don’t know what the hell I was so afraid of before, but I’m ready to let you see the real me.” His throat moves as he swallows, and he looks unsure for the first time. “If you still want me.”
“God.” I throw my arms around him and squeeze him tight. “I still want you. More than ever. More than anything.”
“Good,” he says, squeezing me back. “Then let’s do it.”