Spying Under the Mistletoe (Love Undercover #2) - Stina Lindenblatt Page 0,63

she also had no idea that you’re currently living with him. She needs to work on getting new informants.” He winks at me.

“Most definitely,” I say, laughing.

“Well, in that case, let me carry this to your vehicle.”

“That’s really okay.” The last thing I need is a stranger walking me to my car when someone wants me dead—even if it would save me time. “But thanks for offering.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Well, it was nice meeting you, Chloe, and you, too.” He pats Whiskey one more time on the head. “Maybe I’ll see you around if things don’t work out between you and your boyfriend.” That part’s directed at me.

“Maybe.” But probably not.

Or you could give him a chance. Just because Mom made poor choices when it came to men doesn’t mean you do, too. You made one mistake. One mistake doesn’t make a pattern.

I ignore the voice in the back of my head. I’m not ready to test that theory out, especially while Landon is my fake boyfriend.

22

Chloe

The drive to Landon’s town house isn’t any quicker than the one to my apartment. Christmas music pipes through the speakers, and I sing along, not caring that I look like an idiot.

Whiskey sits on the front seat, his paws on the armrest under the window, watching the world drive by.

It’s dark by the time I park on the street outside Landon’s home. The town house isn’t much brighter, other than the faint light streaming through the gap in the closed living-room curtains from the lamp controlled by a timer. Which means Landon isn’t home yet. But it’s nice to know that I’m at least not entering a dark town house. Nor am I entering it alone.

Whiskey isn’t much protection against someone with a contract on my head—Landon would need a full-grown Rottweiler for that. But at least I’ve got someone to keep me company.

And I have the penknife I retrieved from my apartment.

I open the front door and enter the security code. Whiskey happily enters the house and heads toward the kitchen. “I’ll feed you in a minute,” I tell him. “I just have to get the rest of the stuff.”

I set the cardboard box on the floor and check my phone.

Landon: Running a little late. Will be home in an hour.

It was sent twenty minutes ago. I send him a text in reply.

Me: Okay. See you soon.

Forty-five minutes later—as I’m hanging up the imitation pine boughs on top of the kitchen cabinets—Thank you, Pinterest, for that suggestion—the front door clicks open.

And then…

“What the fuck?”

I peer over my shoulder, doing my best not to lose my balance on the stepladder. Landon is staring in disbelief at the decorations covering every available surface.

A few years ago, I fell in love with the Christmas farmhouse theme. Rustic wooden signs with sayings such as “Let It Snow,” “Merry Christmas,” and “Meet Me Under the Mistletoe” are scattered throughout the room, leaning against the wall and the corner of one bookshelf. Black-and-white checked cushions cover the couch, along with my favorite one with the close up of a reindeer’s face, as if he’s peeking into the camera lens.

The rest of the space is filled with pine boughs, small fake pine trees in tin containers, little red birds made from feathers, pillar candles with cinnamon sticks wrapped with pieces of twine and burlap sacks.

“Surprise.” I climb down from the ladder. “I figured since you don’t have any Christmas decorations, I’d put mine up.”

His gaze jumps from the wreath on the table to me, and his eyebrows crunch together.

I swallow. Hard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you really don’t like Christmas decorations. I thought it was because you don’t have time for things like that. And because you’re a guy.” I shrug. “But if you don’t like them, I can remove them.”

When he doesn’t say anything, I reach for the reindeer on the mantel, next to the wooden sign that proclaims “Believe.”

“You drove to your apartment even though your life is in danger?” His voice comes out like high-grit sandpaper, and I wince.

“There’s a good chance I did.”

“Fuck, Chloe. I’ve been hired to protect you. That means keeping you from being killed. What part of that don’t you understand?”

My body bristles and my tone comes out as chilled as the San Francisco Bay water in December. “I understand all of it. I’m not an idiot. And I’m sorry for trying to bring a little Christmas cheer into your otherwise non-cheerful existence.”

Whiskey whimpers. At the heartbreaking sound, the memory of my