by C. E. Murphy
“Yes.” He stopped trying to beat the grin down, and tipped his head at the door. “I’m here because you should be at the party, and Holliday thought you might actually listen if I came to get you. Get your coat.”
I got my coat, turned off my computer screen, and tugged Homicide’s door closed behind me before chasing Morrison down the steps to the precinct’s lobby.
Fireworks erupted in the sky as we pushed the doors open. Myriad colors bloomed against high clouds, reflecting the sparking streams of light as they popped and roared and whistled across the city. Distant music rang down the street, the strains of “Auld Lang Syne” played on radios and taken up by tuneless, exuberant voices. Morrison and I both stopped, taken aback by the sudden light and song show, then looked at one another.
There was really only one thing to do at midnight on New Year’s Eve, and we both knew it. We stood there gazing at each other, eye to eye, neither with the height advantage. Neither breathing, as far as I could tell. Time hadn’t stopped; I could feel my heart beating a little too hard as a blush started to climb my cheeks. But it felt like we were in a bubble, just me and Morrison, waiting to see what happened next.
The funny thing was that I thought if we’d been at Billy’s party, I might’ve kissed him. A brief peck on the way to kissing someone else. It would’ve been impolite not to, in those circumstances, but standing there in the precinct building doors, fireworks raining colored light on us, a kiss was more than just a kiss.
I glanced up just to find somewhere else to look, and discovered some enterprising soul had hung mistletoe over the door. I breathed laughter, making Morrison look up, too.
Complicated amusement danced over his face, making his blue eyes bright. He said, “Ah,” and took one judicious step out from under the door. “Happy New Year, Walker.”
My heart filled up and turned my smile sad and stupid all at once. “Happy New Year, Captain.”
“Come on.” Morrison offered a hand. “We’ve got a party to go to.”
There were probably a million reasons I shouldn’t accept that gesture. A million reasons he shouldn’t have offered it, for that matter. Right then, I didn’t care. Still smiling, I put my hand in his and squeezed. “Yes, sir.”
He squeezed back, released my fingers, and we went out into the new year together.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My undying thanks to the Word War Writers, who are too many to name, but know who they are, for the daily word wars that helped me finish this book in a timely fashion. I would not have done it without you.
I’d also like to thank Heather Fagan for use of her name in this book, and for participating in the Brenda Novak Diabetes Research auction which led to her being a character in Demon Hunts. Information about the auction can be found at www.brendanovak.com.
And my thanks to the usual suspects: my agent, Jennifer Jackson, and my editor, Mary-Theresa Hussey, whose insights helped to shed light on the structural comment that Trent made which I had totally misinterpreted. The book is all the better for your help. Also, as far as I’m concerned, cover artist Hugh Syme and the Harlequin art department, headed by Kathleen Oudit, outdid themselves on the cover for this book. Imagine little heart shapes dancing around this paragraph.
I would say you can also imagine little hearts dancing around this paragraph, wherein I thank my husband Ted for being consistently wonderful, but that would be unbearably goopy and I could never say something like that in public without ruining my rep as a tough girl. :)
DEMON HUNTS
ISBN: 978-1-4268-5614-3
Copyright © 2010 by C.E. Murphy
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