The Girl in the Mist: A Misted Pines Novel

by Ashley, Kristen

I would learn in short order that something had changed.

  I learned this as they all trooped in, Celeste and I were in the kitchen, me perhaps hopelessly crafting a salad, Celeste definitely more fittingly air frying some tater tots.

  Regardless that food was openly being prepared, Jace and Jess went directly to the pantry and tore into the stash of chips that Celeste had curated for them.

  Bohannan, however, came direct to me.

  As I stood, head tipped back, staring at him in titillated shock, he slipped an arm around my waist, pulled me to his body, dropped his head and took my mouth.

  Okay now.

  This one was official.

  There was no tongue, but his lips were firm, his beard was exquisitely tickly, the pressure perfect, and up close he smelled like mist and man, so those high school kids in his senior class knew what they were talking about.

  He lifted his head. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I forced out.

  His beard was stingy with smiles, but still, I was forming a catalog of them.

  The one my breathy “hey” earned was a new variety and it made my vaginal walls contract.

  He let me go, and as I came back into the room, I realized there was something about him doing that the first time in front of the kids.

  Something nice.

  What was not nice was Jess scarfing down Cool Ranch Doritos like he was attempting to win a contest.

  “You do know we’re eating five minutes after I slap the burgers on the grill,” I informed him.

  “You do know the men are here, so that grill is for sissies. Real men cook meat outdoors,” Jess replied.

  Taking the Pringles cannister with him, Jace proved his brother’s point by saying, “I’ll fire up the grill.”

  Jason went outside.

  Mutely, I turned to Bohannan.

  “Pick your battles,” he advised.

  He then moved to his daughter and kissed the side of her head.

  I watched this knowing there was already a battle I’d selected.

  But I needed reinforcements.

  Since I was now living there, that morning, before I drove up to pack and properly (if temporarily) move in, I’d helped myself to the Bohannan house.

  I’d found there was nook nor cranny that had not felt the touch of Grace Bohannan.

  Translation: Bohannan did everything in his power to make every inch of her environment something that made her happy, something that made it hers, so that she would settle into that home with her family and give as good as she got.

  I had a life where I’d cruised on luxury yachts and stayed in castles as a guest of people who owned castles.

  This was not that.

  Bohannan was not a billionaire.

  But everything was high-quality, if not luxury, and as mentioned, Grace had great taste. She put her stamp on things, but she did it with an eye to keeping her boys comfortable.

  Her bedroom was a somewhat different story.

  I’d been so jubilant after Welsh was caught, I hadn’t poked around.

  But that day, I discovered not only was Bohannan’s bedroom pretty danged rad, his closet was sweet (though, no windows or window seat). His bathroom was a dream.

  And the private sitting room off to the side, which had floor to ceiling windows that fully opened to the elements, had a direct view to the lake and a modern Juliet balcony, was pure sanctuary.

  This was where we found ourselves after dinner, again not making out, but perfecting the art of cuddling, luxuriating in that with the windows open, the fresh air coming in, blanket tucked around us providing insulation, and body heat doing the rest.

  “What’s with the mist?” I asked.

  He chuckled. “Took you long enough.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Usually, if it’s fall and winter, people ask that right off the bat.”

  “I had other things on my mind.” I reminded him.

  “Hydrothermal springs.”

  I took my head off his shoulder to look at his face.

  “Seriously?”

  A nod.

  I stated the obvious. “It’s huge.”

  Another nod. “Yup. There’s a band of them along the bottom. All year long, no matter how cold it is outside, there are spots in the lake that feel like summer. Sayin’ that, there are spots where it’s colder. It’s just that, there are enough of the hot ones, it heats the whole lake, so when the outside temperature drops, and the air hits the water, mist forms. It doesn’t go away from October to March, sometimes September, if we get cold early like this year, and April, if we stay cold late. And if it’s very cold, it’s just straight up fog throughout this whole valley.”

  “And thus the name, Misted Pines.”

  “Yeah, and that’s what the Okanagan called it, translated to English.”

  “Okanagan?”

  “The Methow and Okanagan tribes lived on this land. Now they live southeast on the Colville Reservation.”

  “Right,” I muttered.

  “Also, that’s the name of the really big lake, east of here.”

  “I’m afraid my Washington state geography isn’t all it should be.”

  “We’ll get you there.”

  “Mm.”

  “The indigenous tribes thought this was a spiritual place. Used it in healing. After it was taken from them, stories turned. Early settlers thought it was haunted. Or cursed. Tales told of people boating into the mist, never returning.”

  “I’ll note at this juncture, neither the real estate person nor the FBI shared these stories with me.”

  He smiled and cuddled me closer. “Then there’s the story of Cornelius Ruck.”

  Of course there was.

  “His name was not Cornelius.”

  Another smile. “It was. Wealthy fur trader and local big man. Cornelius would meet his mistress at a cabin he built at the side of the lake. He did this until his wife followed him, carrying a pistol. Allegedly.”

  “Allegedly?”

  “Allegedly. The cabin burned down. Nobody inside. Mrs. Ruck was seen rowing into the mist, where she disappeared. She was not seen rowing out of it. But the day after the fire, she was doing her normal business in town. Folks found it interesting she didn’t report her husband missing until days later.”

  “And Cornelius, and his, I’ll note unnamed, mistress?”

  Now a grin and he gestured to the windows. “Never seen again, but they’re out there, haunting the lake.”

  “Something to know about me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m not good with ghost stories.”

  “Then you picked the wrong town, baby.”

  That sounded ominous.

  “I don’t want Celeste dating Will,” I blurted.

  That had not been the way I’d rehearsed it.

  His brows flew up.

  “I intended to preface this by saying, you and I are bonding. She and I are bonding. The boys and I are bonding. But I understand my place here. I’m new. We’ve officially kissed once.”

  “Officially?”

  “All the forehead kisses, etcetera, don’t count.”

  His beard twitched.

  I pulled a bit away from him (but not too far).

  “However, as an authority on this, seeing as I successfully raised two stunning, perfect, wonderful, strong, capable girls, and upon some sleuthing today, which others might erroneously refer to as—” I did air quotation marks, “—stalking, I got a look at Will. And I don’t like him.”

  “You got a look at him.”

  “Through the window at Aromacobana.”

  “You got a look at him through the window of a coffee shop.”

  “Yes,” I confirmed.

  “And you’re raising your banner on this.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I ask what has your intuition sparking?”

  “I don’t like the look of him.”

  “Explain.”

  “He’s tall and handsome.”<
br />
  Bohannan stared at me.

  “I know both of those sound good. You just have to trust me.”

  “Reading between these lines, you’re telling me this so I’ll tell my daughter she can’t date the guy she’s been crushing on since sixth grade. The guy who finally noticed her and asked her out. The guy whose sister was just murdered, and she has a soft heart, and she would want to be there for him, and now she gets to be there for him. You want me to tell that daughter she can’t date this guy and find some way to do it without laying you out that I’m telling her that because you don’t like the look of him.”

  “Obviously, this sounds impossible, so we have to form a plan.”

  “Babe, you do know that doing that, no matter how awesome a plan we form, is gonna lay me out with my girl.”

  “Okay, how about just say, until you sort out Alice’s killer, she has to stay at home unless she’s at school.”

  Another eyebrow raise.

  “You think that’ll go over better?”

  “Bohannan—”

  He turned to me and pulled me into his arms.

  “Larue, listen to me, Celeste isn’t my first rodeo. I learned with two boys, who, growing up, and sometimes still, have more testosterone than brains, what a heavy hand in parenting means to a kid. You gotta let them make their own mistakes.”

  “Cade, honey, listen to me,” I said softly, lifting my hands to curl them around either side of his neck. “When it comes to dating, the consequences of mistakes a boy could make, and a girl could make, can be two very different, very life-altering things.”

  His head ticked.

  And his voice was growly when he asked, “You got that vibe off the kid?”

  “I do not like stereotyping. I avoid it. It’s not just. It’s not right. But that doesn’t mean some aren’t earned. To mix metaphors, he’s the cock on the walk with a bird on a string. He has the perfect pressure point to push to get what he wants. Maybe I’m wrong and all he wants is a beautiful girl to spend time with and to listen to him after something heinous happened to him and his family. Or he could be a piece of shit in a high school hunk disguise. At the very least, she needs someone to explain the intricacies of consent versus cajoling, and make it very clear only she gets to decide.”

  “And that’s supposed to be me?”

  I winced and noted, “You are her father.”

  He let me go, turned to the windows, sat back, and for the first time since I’d known him, he looked flummoxed.

  He was a great guy.

  I was living with him and cooking for him (and his kids) and anxiously awaiting having sex with him, so he was, for all intents and purposes, my guy.

  Damn it all to hell.

  “I’ll talk to her,” I mumbled.

  He turned instantly to me, eyes sexy and happy and victorious, and gathered me in his arms.

  “You owe me,” I warned as his face disappeared in my neck.

  “You got it. Once we tear the lid off, first month, every go, you get three orgasms to my one.”

  His beard was tickly and his lips were firm on my neck too.

  Lord.

  “Can you do that?” I asked.

  That was a mistake.

  Because he pulled his face out of my neck and I liked it there.

  Though, with the look on his face, I wasn’t complaining.

  Wow.

  He could do that.

  “I’m celibate,” I announced. “I haven’t had sex in thirteen years.”

  He blinked.

  “Maybe fourteen,” I went on.

  Bohannan didn’t move.

  “So, no pressure,” I finished.

  He growled.

  I grinned.

  And the mist clung to the lake.

  Thirty

  The Second Shoe

  I stood at the sink, cradling a cup of coffee in my hands, staring at the lake…

  Fretting.

  Allow me to catch you up.

  From our time cuddling in his sitting room to now, I’d been living with Bohannan for three weeks and three days.

  It was nearing Thanksgiving.

  Fenn had wrangled a miracle, and she and James were coming home on leave for the holiday.

  That home being…here.

  Even before Fenn and James made these plans, Camille and Joan had planned to come up. Though I suggested I go down, Camille would hear none of it. Joan would hear none of it.

  They wanted to meet these Celeste, Jesse and Jason people I kept talking about.

  And, of course, Cade.

  And yes, you could take that for what it was.

  My dastardly daughters—plotting.

  Incidentally, I had not shared with my girls that there recently was the very dramatic death that I was marginally embroiled in of a pretty eight-year-old child.

  I told myself they’d worried enough about Welsh; they didn’t need me to add to that with Alice.

  And although that was true, I had concerns that neither of my girls was going to be very accepting of that truth.

  Onward from that forthcoming debacle…

  We were hitting critical mass with how desperately I needed to have sex with Cade Hunter Bohannan (yes, I’d learned his middle name, I’d learned a lot about Bohannan, except how good he was in bed).

  Living with a man you were preposterously attracted to but sleeping in a different room from him, with some hard kisses, your neck having been made fair game along the way and lots of cuddling the only things you got, was—believe me—torture.

  So there was also that.

  Celeste and I still had GPS panic buttons we carried with us and had been given several Taser sessions, which were equal doses of scary and fun. But I felt (somewhat) like I could handle myself with one.

  As a Bohannan, Celeste was a natural.

  She didn’t carry one to school, as that would not be cool, but she carried one everywhere else.

  So did I.

  The boys had put more cameras up and sensors out.

  Hawk’s man, Billy, had flown back to Denver.

  Nothing had led to anything regarding Alice’s killer, to the point Bohannan had sent both boys out on two different jobs—Jace gone for three days first, Jess for four days after—because someone had to make money.

  (Don’t ask me what these “jobs” were, none of them would tell me, so I let it lie.)

  Bohannan himself spent a lot of time in his office (the only room in the house that Grace had decorated with a thoroughly masculine hand—think leather and wood but fortunately no antlers—then again, I’d learned Bohannan and both his boys weren’t only non-hunters, they were anti-hunting, regardless of their lustfully meat-eating ways, “Because in a civilized world, I see no reason why I, or anyone, personally needs to kill a living thing.”—Bohannan’s firm words on that subject).

  He was in that office going over files he was sent, which he was consulting on, from not only police departments across the United States, but also ones from different countries, including ones that had to be translated.

  So…yeah.

  He was that big of a deal.

  I had not moved home, because David decided to take this time I was away to renovate my master bath, and that was noisy, messy, dusty work that not only put me out of my bedroom, but made it impossible for me to work there.

  My kitchen was done (and it proved a little updating—like a new herringbone backsplash and quartz countertops—could work wonders for a space).

  My bath would be finished in another week, just in time to have the house together for my girls to be there.

  Though, I was also not back home, sleeping in one of the two other bedrooms, because Bohannan wanted me to stay.

  I was writing again, and on the weekends would go to my place for several hours to work in my office. But when David was working, I set up in the sitting room in Bohannan’s bedroom (or the living room, or in the local library doing research, or wherever, as laptops do travel).

>   This was the only interesting twist of the last three and a half weeks, seeing as I was writing a Mullally, and Bohannan had asked to read it as I wrote it.

  I let Alicia read my writing as I wrote, and that was it.

  But I found when he asked, I had zero qualms with saying yes.

  So I let him.

  And it was my favorite part of the day when Bohannan would surface from his iPad, look at me and say, “You’re crushing it.”

  Life had formed into a rhythm, and as with these things, the horror of Alice’s loss diminished with time—for us and in town.

  Make no mistake, the gloom had not lifted. Alice and her loss would be remembered for decades to come, but people were getting on with their lives.

  Bohannan and the boys had not forgotten about it, but you can’t investigate a case with zero leads.

  Fortunately, everyone was blaming Leland Dern for this, exulting Harry Moran for his patience and continued tenacity (because he wasn’t giving up) and exonerating Bohannan for stepping back.

  He had been doing it free of charge, for one, and everyone understood people had to get paid.

  And you couldn’t make up psychological factors to build a profile, and the murderer was giving them nothing.

  So all was good in my world even if all was not good.

  I was nervous the girls were coming. I was beginning to wonder why Bohannan was delaying our consummation, because his excuse didn’t seem like an excuse anymore. I felt like the second shoe was imminently about to drop.

  And considering, until recently, Celeste had had constant company in one form or another during their dates, and Will had not taken things out of the public domain, say, taking her to his house for a study date or something, I had not had much to worry about on that front.

  However, that night, Celeste and Will were going to some party in the woods.

  First, I had not had my conversation with her about Will, which was foolish procrastination on my part, but lest we forget, I was a relatively new entity in her life. So, although I was already madly in love and enjoyed spending time with her, feeling God had granted me this beautiful boon of being in the life of another young woman (though this one I didn’t have to push out and potty train) I was still, as noted, new to her life. And with a teenage girl, bonding was always tentative at best.