Her eyes narrowed. “You really want to do this?”
“Why not? Are you bad at gift giving? That would track. It’s an art.” I leaned a hip against the counter, amused by the tic in her jaw.
“Are you challenging me to a Christmas present duel?” she asked, chin lifting.
“Maybe I am.” I tossed the rag over my shoulder and mirrored her stance. “And I already know I’ll win.”
“The card saysthoughtfulgifts, Grant. Not lottery tickets and tiny bottles of peppermint schnapps.”
“Loser does the dishes.” I held out my hand.
She slipped the card into her pocket, then wrapped her fingers around mine in a firm shake. “You’re on. We exchange gifts at sunset.”
Chapter 18
Valerie
The hum of themicrofilm reader filled the tiny basement of the Silverpine Library. I’d been there for hours, the screen washing my face in pale blue light as I whirled through headlines from the nineteen-eighties.
The scent of dust and pine polish tickled my nose, and my fingers were cramped, my shoulders aching from sitting too long in the same position. It was a far cry from the warmth I’d woken up to this morning.
Heat crept up my spine as the memory slipped in uninvited—Grant’s arm slung heavy across my waist, his breath steady against the back of my neck, the faint spice of his cologne tangled with sleep-warm skin. The flashback hit like static.
I’d broken my own rule and was halfway to breaking another:enjoying his company.Enough that a small, traitorous part of me hoped the ghost had commandeered my room permanently. Not that I’d ever tell Grant that. Or that I liked his breakfasts. Or the way he’d checked my room for the phantom yeti. Or that I'd slept—ridiculously, completely safe—with his heartbeat a breath away.
He was infuriatingly good at small gestures. The steady ones. The kind that made my chest ache and my imagination misbehave. Though he’d probably ruin it tonight when I unwrapped a sports magazine and a pack of gas station lighters. I bet he’d spring for one of those extra-long fireplace ones, and call it a seasonal upgrade.
I rubbed my temple and leaned closer to the screen. What Ineededto do was focus on old newsprint, not on how my accidental husband looked without his shirt. Becausedamn… at this rate, I might as well toss the whole case and spend the rest of the year staring into space.
I shook my head, blinking at the blur of headlines. Ghosts first. Finding out the name of Grant's gym so I could lurk by the treadmills later.
The thought earned a half-laugh. He probably already had an entourage taking full advantage of the gym'sbring-a-friendpolicy. I'd be just another ponytail in the background, pretending I knew how to work the machines.
I blew out a breath. I was officially the only woman to get hot and bothered beside a microfilm machine in a dusty basement.
Another hour dragged by, the steady hum my own personal soundtrack to bad decisions. My coffee was cold. My stomach growled. And yet nothing explained why the hauntings at the inn had spiked so suddenly. There had to be a reason. If I could figure that out, I could work backward, thread by thread, until I discovered the man behind our mysterious ghost.
The reel clicked, and a new headline slid into view.
“Annual Silverpine Lake Winter Spectacular Moves to Frosthaven Arena.”
I frowned. The skating show had been a Silverpine tradition for decades. I’d seen a few stories when I’d scrolled through earlier years. The troupe came into town every December 1st and stayed through Christmas Eve.
Scrolling further, I caught a grainy photo that stopped me cold. A smiling woman in a long white coat stood in front of the Silverpine Inn, a cluster of young figure skaters bundled at her side. They were all beaming, mid-laugh, snowflakes caught in their hair. The woman was holding something small between her gloved fingers.
I zoomed in on the photo and squinted. I could just barely make it out. The woman had a brass key with a charm plate engraved withRoom Eleven.
My room.
A little shiver crawled up my spine. Was it a coincidence?
The caption read:“Coach Natalie Gray and her students, December 23.”
“Come on, Natalie,” I whispered as I scrolled through more headlines. “What happened to you?”
But there was nothing else.
I grabbed my phone and typed her name alongside the skating arena. A few old interviews came up, but nothing tied to the Silverpine Inn. Her obituary said she’d died a few years ago, unmarried.
