Some Like Murder Hot PAPERBACK Frankie Chandler #7 (with the Harlow Brothers)

My husband froze with his gaze fastened on the author of The Aunt Civility books.

“Wait a minute. The Edward Harlow who wrote Monday Morning?”

Bowers had taken the seat next to Nicholas, so when he stood, he had to reach over me to shake Edward’s hand. “I loved that book.”

“Thank you. I’m pleased you enjoyed it.”

“You captured the spirit of the bicentennial and Rick Monday. I felt like I was there. After reading your book, I wished I had experienced it.”

I scrunched my nose. “That would make you too old for me.”

“If he gets his wish and ages a couple of decades, maybe I’d do in a pinch.” Nicholas grinned at me.

“Hilarious,” I responded in lofty tones, meaning it wasn’t funny at all. Even as I met his gaze, my face burned at the memory of my latest act of public idiocy.

“Nicholas.”

The younger brother glared at his brother. “Would you like me to get you a megaphone? That way, everyone will hear you.”

I couldn’t see why that would matter.

“It was an inside joke, Edward." To me he said, "How’s your chest?”

Nostrils flared, both Bowers’ and Edward’s.

“Explain at once,” the older brother demanded.

“There’s no need—” I began.

Nicholas shrugged. “She pinched me in the lobby. And then she wrapped her arms around my middle. She thought I was her husband.”

“And then you hit me.”

The transformation in Edward astonished me. A low rumble came from the back of his throat, and he seemed to inflate. “What’s this?” he said in a silky tone.

Nicholas leaned away from his brother. “I reacted. I didn’t know who was sneaking up on me.”

Edward deflated, and his look turned to one of concern. Not for me. For his brother. “I didn’t realize the affect this, er, situation was having on you.”

“I’m fine.” Nicholas slipped me a glance. “You okay?”

“My collarbone is fine. Just a little bruised.”

“Apologize at once.”

Edward’s words snapped out, making me jump, but they didn’t affect Nicholas one bit.

“I already did as soon as it happened.”

“You still need to apologize for referring to, er, a body part that a gentleman wouldn’t have brought up.” To Bowers, he said, “He’s in training.”

“For what?” I asked.

“To be a grown up.”

“No offense meant,” Nicholas said, including Bowers in his half-baked apology. “To either of you.”

“None taken.” Bowers answered for both of us and jumped back into a conversation about Monday Morning with the author. In fact, he asked to switch places with me for easier access to Edward. Obviously, Nicholas Harlow was no longer a concern.

Once seated, I took the opportunity to study the menu. It was a group menu limited to a few choices in each category. The Harlows had already received their appetizers, though I noticed neither man touched his plate. Nicholas had the corn chowder, but Edward’s plate looked interesting.

“Excuse me. What did you order?”

He glanced down. “Charred Spanish octopus.”

Yikes. With the briny smell of the ocean surrounding me, I could almost see the little guy frolicking in his natural environment. “How do they know it was Spanish?”

Both men stared.

“I mean, couldn’t it be Moroccan? Or Algerian? He might have been minding his own business and strayed too close to the Spanish coast.”

Bowers rested his hand on mine and leaned close, turning his head so the others couldn’t see his mouth. “You could ask him, but he’s dead. Do you know what you want?”

“I’ll stick to the soup.”

Once the waiter had taken our orders, I insisted the Harlows dig in while we waited.

“What brings you to the Hotel del Coronado?” Edward asked. “Or The Del, as the locals call it.”

Bowers struggled to keep his grin in check. “We’re on our honeymoon.”

“Newlyweds. How nice.”

I felt the need to clarify, since I always imagined honeymooners as hysterically cheerful, unable to keep their paws off each other, and generally obnoxious. I didn’t want these two men to worry.

“We’ve been married about a month now, but we had to recover first.”

Edward stopped cutting his Spanish—possibly Algerian—octopus. “Recover? From the wedding? I understand many brides overdo it, causing themselves stress.”

“From our injuries. Bowers suffered more than I did. It was only my ankle whereas he fractured his tibia and broke his collarbone and a few ribs. We both tumbled down—”

“Frankie.” Bowers squeezed my hand. “We don’t want to bore these gentlemen.”

He meant the gentlemen who were now gaping. To change the subject, I asked Edward—because I was ignoring Nicholas—if he was married. Nicholas answered.

“Just a girlfriend, but she’s a pip.”

The way he said it, a pip was something I should avoid.

“It’s a long-distance relationship,” Edward explained. “She’s in Illinois. Claudia and her brother run Inglenook Resort. They converted the family mansion into a delightful getaway.”

“You can skip the commercial, Edward. They’ve already booked their honeymoon.”

The waiter set Bowers’ and my starters on the table. We all took advantage of the opportunity to end the conversation.