“I don’t think we’ve ever been partners.” His eyes found mine and held. “What would that even feel like?”
I drew in a breath that burned all the way down. We weren’t going to find out.
Athudechoed down the shadowed hall, followed by a faint rustle like dry leaves scraping across wood. I gripped the candelabra, my knuckles throbbing. Another draft swept through, snuffing out the candles in my hand. I flinched hard.
The only light came from his doorway. My feet inside my fuzzy slippers begged me to launch straight into his arms. Grant noticed. Amusement replaced the intensity in his eyes.
“Scared? You can stay in my room.”
“I don’t get scared,” I said tightly. “And I’d rather take a dip in the frozen lake.”
“Right. Too bad it’s too cold for jellyfish. You could kill two birds with one swim.”
We stood inches apart. His hand rose between us, close enough that warmth pooled along my skin. Then his fingers swept over the candlewicks, and the flames flared to life.
“If you change your mind, Room 12 has better lighting.”
“Enjoy your lighting.” I turned on my heel, candles wavering. “And your terrifying ego. I’m sure you and the ghost have a lot in common.”
“Night, Mrs. Delaney.”
I stopped short, my married name sinking under my skin before I could shrug it off. It didn’t mean anything. It was just Grant getting the last word in the most underhanded way possible. But for a heartbeat, it sounded like a promise instead of a punchline.
I walked faster and closedthe door to Room 11.
***
Sunlight stabbed through the lace curtains like razor-tipped darts.
Bullseye.
Even the sun knew how little I’d slept.
I groaned, dragging the quilt over my head until my brain stopped replayingNight, Mrs. Delaneyon an endless loop. I was officially haunted, and I hadn’t even seen the ghost.
Even more haunting, the image of Grant in that soft knit sweater, day-old scruff shadowing his jaw, and that molten gaze skimming the hem of my nightshirt. The way he'd looked at me might've been the scariest thing I’d ever seen—and I should run before I tried to get him to do it again.
Ugh, had he practiced that seductive tone in the mirror?Well done, Mr. Delaney.You’ve perfected your witchcraft.
I shoved myself upright, my hair tangled, sleepshirt twisted around my thighs. “New day. New ghost. No Grant,” I muttered to the empty room.
My slippers shushed over the carpet as I headed downstairs, following the smell of coffee. The lobby looked different in daylight, more like the quaint bed-and-breakfast from the photos in the brochure. Sunlight glittered over the marble fireplace, catching on the pinecones woven into thick garlands that draped the mantel.
I padded into the kitchen, already peeling off a layer from the warmth.
Grant stood at the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a red-and-green plaid apron tied around his waist. He moved easily, shoulders relaxed, looking like every woman's domestic fantasy. No one should have forearms like that, and they definitely didn't belong in the kitchen. A rock quarry, maybe.
Was it possible to be attracted to breakfast competence? Asking for myself.
Grease sizzled in the pan, and my stomach growled, louder than my pride, as I eyed the growing pile of bacon.
Without a word, he poured coffee into a chipped mug that read#1 Miracle Worker. This Witch Has Skillz.The same mug I’d left in the drying rack the night before, and slid it toward me.
His fingers brushed mine when I reached for the handle. Static zinged up my arm.What new witchcraft is this?He might not have said anything, but my starving brain filled in the silence with that rich sound of his voice, switching fromNighttoMorning, Mrs. Delaney.
“You cook?” I cleared the tightness from my throat, then gulped my coffee. My eyes fluttered shut around the first sip.
“Don’t you?” He flipped a pancake with ridiculous precision, catching it on the spatula like some kind of breakfast magician.
