Snowflakes dotted the thin cotton of her nightshirt, the hem riding high, and she had what looked like tiny sweaters wrapped around her ankles. For one reckless second, I wantedto touch the smooth curve of her shoulder, to spread warmth back into her.
Then I caught the faint red mark along her cheek. The one from the painting.
I'd followed her to the inn to keep her safe, telling myself I was her boss, and whatever history we shared was fine to erase. Just the universe correcting itself. But it hadn't been professional instinct that pulled her back. It was the kind that whisperedmy wife,even when it shouldn't.
Somewhere between the day she’d slapped that case file on my desk and this morning—watching her make lazy figure-eights in her syrup—I realized whatever had shifted between us hadn't stopped. It had been melting through me ever since. The polar caps giving way, slow and inevitable.
I used to think it had started at the luau, but it was long before that. If I'd dug deep enough, I'd have found the volcano that had never really cooled. The one reserved for the woman who challenged me at every turn and made me wonder, for the first time, what forever might feel like in a bar outside the airport, before I opened my big mouth and we both learned the universe had other plans.
How long had she been lying here? I hadn’t heard a sound. But Silverpine had its tricks, warping air, swallowing noise until you couldn’t tell if what you heard was real or something the house wanted you to believe.
I crouched beside her, careful not to startle her. Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks, and she murmured something incoherent into the pillow.
“Spells?”
Her eyes blinked open, slow and unfocused, until they found me.
“Grant?”
“Want to tell me why you’re camping outside my door like a lost elf?”
“The ghost stole my room,” she said simply as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Then why aren’t you in mine?
The thought slammed into me before reason could intervene. Because apparently, having her with me had started to feel more natural than anything in my life.
“Come on,” I said, pushing the door open wider. “You’re freezing.”
“I’m fine.”
“Your lips are blue.”
“Winter aesthetic.”
I bit back a smile. “I will carry you in here.”
Her eyes went wide, then slowly softened in that wary,Are you serious?kind of way.
“You’re not wearing a shirt.”
“Oh, the horror! I belong in this haunted house.”
Her gaze dragged down my chest, and my amusement buried itself under the rubble of that look.
“Your absareterrifying,” she murmured, looking up through her lashes. “What do you do, lift goblins during spooky season?”
I swallowed the urge to laugh, my fingers flexing with the need to touch her. And if I didn't get my hands under control, I was going to find out how soft her skin felt under my palms.
“Where do you come up with these things?”
She lifted a shoulder, the sleeve of her nightshirt slipping lower, exposing the bare curve of her skin. “My mind’s avery weird place.”
“I don’t hate it,” I rasped.
Her eyes flicked up to meet mine, her lips curving slightly. “I don’t hate everything about you either. You make good bacon.”
I huffed a laugh, mostly to cover the fact that my sanity had gone rogue, and I'd just discovered the eighth wonder of the world was bacon.
