The thought sprang into her head like it had always been there, and Tamsyn sat very still, surprised at herself.
Is that why this acquisition appealed to her? Not only was a million dollars a pretty solid freaking foundation for a new life, but if she could lift something like this from a private house, she could say she’d gone out at the top of her field.
She’d have something to show for the last decade of lying and stealing and sneaking and occasional arson. Something more than an Airstream in a field and an expired jar of minced garlic in her fridge.
And then she could . . .
Tamsyn wrinkled her nose.
What would she even do if she wasn’t doing this?
For just a second, Tamsyn’s brain conjured up an image: Bowen’s cabin, his unruly dark hair falling over his eyes as he leaned over his work on that big, scarred table she’d seen in video calls. He was wearing one of those thick sweaters she liked so much, and in this vision, she was wearing one, too. One of his, the hem brushing her bare thighs as she stood at the stove and cooked . . .
Okay, so her brain conjured up yet another package of Noodz 4 U, but if—when—she had time to cook, she’d definitely learn some recipes. Fancy ones, Ina Garten style.
“And you will not be cooking them for Bowen Penhallow,” she told herself firmly as she mentally put some pants on the version of her in his cabin.
She let herself do this too often, slip into some daydream where she and Bowen were a lot more friendly and a lot more naked, and every time she did, Tamsyn swore she’d stop, swore she’d keep Bowen in that box she’d labeled “Just a (Weird and Also Very Hot) Friend, NO SEXY THOUGHTS ALLOWED.”
And yet here he was, out of that box, and her thoughts were very sexy indeed.
Until she pictured what he’d say if she took this job.
Now the version of Bowen in her head wasn’t looking at her with that warm fondness she sometimes caught in his gaze, and he definitely wasn’t watching her with the hungry heat she’d just been imagining.
He was scowling and worried and pissed off. He’d hate everything about her taking this job. Too many unknowns, too many risks.
But Bowen was in Graves Glen.
Making bad decisions during the holidays was nothing new for Tamsyn. She had three tragic haircuts, two ex-boyfriends, and one holiday photo from her teenage years where she was wearing a sweater that read “Fa La La La Fuck It” while standing next to her grandmother—all offering proof that Tamsyn + December + Too Much Free Time = Disaster.
“This is so stupid,” she muttered, her finger hovering over the discreet button reading Accept Request. “It’s dangerous,” she added, raising her voice. “And complicated! This is going to take prep. It’s going to take resources. You can’t go racing off to someone’s house to lift a brooch by Christmas Eve. You are an adult who knows better. You . . .”
Trailing off, Tamsyn gave her better angels one more chance to save her, but maybe they were taking a holiday break, too, because her hand was moving, her finger was clicking, and now the screen simply read, Request Engaged, TLB Acquisitions.
Tamsyn sat there, mouth dry, heart pounding, and head so light she was almost giddy.
She was going to Wales. She was getting into this house and making off with a very expensive-looking piece of jewelry, and she was going to do it all by Christmas Eve.
Fa la la la fuck it.
Chapter 3
Bowen wondered if he’d been on his mountain so long that he’d forgotten just how loud family gatherings were in general, or if his family in particular was just That Loud.
He suspected it was the latter.
Of course, not all families had a talking cat adding his own voice to the cacophony.
“Treats?” the little beastie asked as Gwyn stepped out of the kitchen with yet another bottle of wine, just as Taran banged his wee fists on the table with an echoed “TREEEEEEEEEE!”
“Wonderful,” Vivienne said, shifting the baby on her lap and shooting a wry look at Gwyn. “He’s learning to talk from the cat.”
“Sir Purrcival has a better vocabulary than Rhys, so you should be thankful,” Gwyn said, handing the wine to Wells to open.
“When that cat starts using words like ‘peripatetic’ just because he’s going on a walk, let me know,” Vivi replied, and Rhys leaned over to kiss his wife’s offered cheek.
“Thank you, my darling,” Rhys said, before shooting Gwyn a two-fingered salute. She only laughed merrily, flipping him off right back, but Wells glared at his brother and raised his voice to intone, “We are in my house, Rhys, and—”
“Actually, this is Da’s house, you just live in it, which is a bit sad for a man your age.”
“SAAAAA!” Taran screamed, and Rhys nodded at him.
“Just so.”
They were in the dining room of the house Simon had built high on the hill—Bowen couldn’t call anything around here a mountain no matter what the locals said—in Graves Glen, a house Gwyn and Wells had taken over and, in the words of Gwyn, “majorly de-creepified.”
Bowen had only vague memories of this place before, but he had to admit it was nice now, warm and cozy. Lived in. Gwyn’s touch was everywhere, from the brightly patterned seats of the dining room chairs to the whimsical mirror shaped like a crescent moon, but Bowen could see Wells here, too: the faux-horn candelabra (now moved safely out of Taran’s reach), the hand-tooled leather placemats.
It had been a house, but now it was a home, and Bowen was happy for his brother.
For both of them.
But the longer he’d sat there tonight, listening to them tease and banter, argue and laugh, the hollower his gut had become.
Bowen thought he’d done a pretty good job of hiding it, but then Vivi turned to him, the baby still in her arms, now happily absorbed in tugging at the ends of her long hair, and asked, “Is everything all right?”
He glanced at his brothers, but they were now engaged in a debate over where to find the best Yule log, and Gwyn had turned to talk to her mother, Elaine, who sat at the head of the table, a piece of holly stuck behind one ear as she swirled her wine in its glass.
