The Semi-Sweet Hereafter Read Free

championship-caliber worrier. He worries like a boss. He’d probably get on well with Phoebe, in fact. They’d make adorable fussbudget kids together.
    If Phoebe weren’t already married to the U.K.’s most famous celebrity “sexy chef,” Jeremy Wright, of course. Details.
    All the same, the fondness in Travis’s voice warmed me.
    You be careful out there.
    We both knew there were reasons I needed to watch out. We weren’t talking about the dangers inherent in my unconventional line of work, either—although chocolate whispering does come with certain complications. That’s just life.
    Sometimes I meet unsavory types during my consulting gigs, for instance. Sometimes I’m offered a bribe to wreck a competitor’s product line. Or I stir up hurt feelings by helping one company and not another. Or I outright refuse to work with someone. I have standards. I don’t perform chocolate magic for just anyone who comes to me with substandard sweets and the ability to pay my (modest) consulting fee.
    Rex Rader had been proof of that much in San Francisco.
    But Travis wasn’t talking about the chocolate biz. He was talking about murder . . . and the unpredictable ways I’d become involved in it lately. It had been a while since my latest foray into the rougher side of beating buttercream and making fudge. Everything was fine now. I figured it would stay that way.
    â€œI will.” I rode the escalator downward, glancing at ads for Lloyds Bank, the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew, and “fatigue reducing” Floradix iron-and-vitamin supplements. “But I don’t have to. I mean, what are the odds of something happening here?”
    â€œAbout twelve per million.”
    â€œCome again, Mr. Wizard?”
    â€œGiven a population of around eight and a half million people and an average of two homicides per week, that’s—”
    I groaned. Leave it to my wunderkind financial adviser to compute the chances of my getting killed while in London.
    â€œYour predecessor, old Mr. Whatshisname, would never have settled for ‘about’ twelve per million,” I interrupted drily. Until Travis had taken over for his firm’s older associate, my required check-ins had been . . . enervating. “He would have known—”
    Travis interrupted with a to-the-decimal-point calculation.
    â€œThat seems really low,” I countered, feeling encouraged.
    â€œIt is. There’s a reason your current assignment is there.”
    There . . . in Safetown, aka London, where being murdered was statistically less likely than meeting Her Majesty, the Queen.
    I strode through the tunnel, shaking my head as I realized Travis was trying to protect me—was hinting he had protected me.
    â€œDid you nudge the Primrose bid to the top of the pile?”
    He didn’t admit as much. But Travis handled all my requests for consultations. He was the one who decided where I went, aside from me. It was a broadening of his role, but he hadn’t minded. It wasn’t as though Danny could take on the job. He was so eager for me to “succeed”—that is, grow my business—he would have let me consult for anyone with a pulse and a bank account.
    With him there to back me up, for sure. But still.
    Danny was terrific. But tough times changed people. They changed their priorities and their willingness to follow the rules.
    â€œAw. I love you, too, Travis.” Saying so with over-the-top sentimentality, I pulled a goofy face. “I’m definitely coming to the Pacific Northwest after this job so we can meet in person.”
    As if that would ever happen, I groused silently. Travis is as elusive personally as he is proficient professionally. I knew more about his dog than I did about him. Which wasn’t saying much. I’d only found out about the dog recently. From Danny. My security expert had a talent for sussing out details. And for