The screen dimmed as I leaned back. This had to be it. The ghost hadn’t wanted me in that room because it wasn’t just a room—it was hers. If Natalie had been the last to stay there before the inn shut its doors each December, then maybe he’s been guarding it all this time.
Keeping it empty.
Keeping it hers.
But that still didn’t answer the question of his identity. He wasn’t family or her husband. How was I going to find the connection?
I hated to admit it, but Grant might be able to help. He had an aggravating knack for spotting patterns and solving problems. For years, he’d been making lemonade out of every lemon I threw at him. Waylaid trip to the North Pole? He’d turned it into a polar bear fundraiser. The July Fourth firework HR debacle? I still blamed him, but he spun it into a fire-safety awareness campaign. He probably saved lives.
He could help here, too.
I printed out the articles and checked the time. There were only a few hours left before sunset, and I still had to shop for his gift. I might’ve been a little too confident this morning. Not about being an amazing gift-giver, but about performing that kind of magic without overnight shipping.
It had to be thoughtful and pure Grant. Something that says,I see you, and stabs him right in the heart center—figuratively. I wanted him to melt with gratitude at my feet, not haunt me until the end of my days. Though he was doing a bang-up job of that fully living.
All of that for twenty bucks. I had my work cut out for me, and not much time to do it.
The first few shops were duds. Time marched along with the sun as I wandered the cobblestone streets, passing windows strung with tinsel and half-off holiday signs that mocked my budget. I fueled up with a caramel mocha and briefly considered buying a holiday cookie basket wrapped in cellophane. Sure, the gift would’ve technically been for him, but I would’ve eaten it. Probably in the middle of the night, sneaking a snack like a festive raccoon.
In the end, I moved on to a little gift shop with vinyl snowflakes clinging to the display window. A blast of warm air greeted me, and I knew instantly this was my place. Quirky trinkets lined the shelves: shot glasses with funny sayings, mini potted cacti decorated with ornaments, and offbeat keychains with boys’ and girls’ names printed in block lettering. Twenty dollars would serve me well here.
I scanned the rack for Grant’s name, frowning when it wasn’t there. Plenty of Davids and Johns, but no Grant. No Valerie either, which clearly meant the manufacturer lacked taste.
I was down to my last sip of caramel mocha, feeling a little defeated, when I saw it—the perfect gift. A rack of ties spun slowly beneath my hand, the clearance sign above doing its best to justify the questionable decision. It was easy to see why. These weren’t business ties; they werefun. Santas and reindeer in hot tubs. A snowman smoking a cigar—which, why? But I didn’t judge. And the holiday star on this A-frame rack of ties that should never see a boardroom was a navy-blue gem covered in tiny flamingos wearing Santa hats.
It reminded me of the luau when he’d shown up outside my hut wearing an austere business suit, sweltering in the humid night air. I mean, he looked devastating in it, no denying that, but it didn’t agree with his reckless charm.
The swagger.
Grant wasn’t a three-piece-suit, stuffy office drone. His devilish attitude used to drive me to distraction, but after he took over Snowbelt, it was like all that effervescent charm got buried in a snowbank, smothered by long hours, endless meetings, and the constant hawk-eyed stare of hisgrandfather.
He was a man dimmed by stringent expectations, and this tie, well… it felt like a little rebellion.
I stuffed the receipt into my jacket pocket, pleased that the clearance squeaked me in just under the twenty-dollar limit. I grabbed a roll of silver wrapping paper and a bright red bow, then headed back to the inn.
Grant’s car wasn’t in the drive. He was probably still out buying me a travel-size lint roller or reindeer-shaped air fresheners. What would that even smell like? I shuddered to find out.
I lingered in the car, heat blasting from the vents, reluctant to go back inside alone. Funny how I’d planned to handle this whole case solo, and now I was procrastinating behind the steering wheel, waiting for Grant to appear and make everything less scary.
Relying on him wasn’t smart. If all went according to plan, we’d be legally separated via magical key by the end of the week. Would he still get to keep my tie? I had no idea how time loops like that worked. I might not even remember any of this. I could wake up alone in my apartment with no clue that he made amazing coffee, or that he didn’t kick away someone’s freezing feet beneath the blanket.
My last boyfriend wouldn’t let me touch him. He called meTitanic toes.Said he was avoiding the icebergs. He wasn’t very nice.
I dropped my head against the steering wheel with a groan, then jolted when the horn blared.Classic.Better to just go inside and face the ghost before my trip down ex-memory lane turned into a full autopsy of all my mismatched relationships. For a meet-cute maker who taught a seminar, I really needed to read my own material.
The lobby was quiet. I flicked on every light in every room I passed and considered taking my spoils up to Grant’s room. Now that I suspected the ghost was guarding Natalie’s, that one was off limits. But instead, I found myself standing in front of the banquet room doors again. The housekeeper must’ve left them open after finishing her shift. I’d swept up most of the debris and propped the fallen frame against the wall, leaving a note that it needed a good vacuuming to catch whatever splinters I’d missed.
The chandelier glowed overhead, and the film of dust that had covered the table was gone, leaving the rich mahogany gleaming. I hesitated, my arms full of wrapping paper, ribbon, and the most questionable tie purchase of my adult life. My pulse picked up, though I wasn’t sure if it was nerves or the creeping dread that I was also carrying scissors.
As long as I didn’t run with them, I’d be fine.
“Okay,” I muttered, deciding to face my fears and set up shop on the long table. “Let's do this.”
The air cooled as I rolled out the paper, brushing over my neck like an icy finger. The chandelier flickered, one bulb flaring bright before the whole thing groaned on its chain, swaying as if it was breathing.
“Don’t start,” I warned, my voice wobbling.
A sudden gust of wind rushed through the room. The red bow lifted, spun, then shot across the table, skittering to a stop against the far wall. I froze, the scissors clutched tight in my hand.
