I appreciated his concern for me. In fact, I appreciated a lot of things about Ian Chisholm. In some ways, he was the light to Rafe’s darkness. Still, our brief dating experience hadn’t turned out that well. Not that it was entirely his fault—he’d been the victim of a love potion gone wrong, but even so, I couldn’t change history. Much as I might like to.

He wasn’t just saying those words. I knew he meant them. And as much as I wanted him to stay, I also knew he was right to leave before the police arrived. He and Detective Inspector Ian Chisholm didn’t always see eye to eye. I suspected the fact that I’d briefly dated Ian had something to do with it.

There is a phenomenon that occurs all over the British Isles toward the end of December. It turns grown men into virtual toddlers and seems to bring out the fool in even the most serious people. I refer, of course, to the Christmas jumper. This is what we Americans would call a Christmas sweater, but for some reason in the UK, the uglier the sweater is, the better. Don’t ask me.