Page 12 of If I Stopped Haunting You

Scotland seemed to settle some ache in her shoulders, calm her breathing. It was a gentle country with rolling green fields flecked with purple heather and musical accents that lulled her to sleep. She’d found a strange sense of peace since she’d come here.

But of course, it hadn’t lasted long.

Neil Storm had ruined it, as he did with all things. And as Pen wandered through an old doorway, she came to a stop, hands gripping the stone as she peered around the wall.

He was seated like a sculpture at the base of crumbling stairs, head in his hands, a swirl of emotions flitting over his face as he buried his fingers in his curls with a deep, guttural sigh. While his appearance had always been clean and pressed, he needed a haircut. Ever since the Incident, he’d let his curls grow, let them lengthen and knot, and Pen had the odd urge to run her fingers through the mess, to untangle it.

The thought made her stomach twist viciously, and she peered over her shoulder to go, but she found she didn’t want to. Swallowing, she froze, her emotions warring. If she left, he’d either see or hear her. But if she announced her presence instead, he’d probably claim she was following him.

There were simply no good solutions here.

Finally, Pen turned, ready to flee back through the large room, but the image of Storm grabbed hold of her. He tore at his hair,teeth gritted, pain breaking across his features. She didn’t want to feel it, didn’t even want to think it, but Pen found herself pitying him. She knew, in some way, that she was to blame for this feeling. Whether or not he’d deserved to be put in his place, Penelope Skinner suddenly wished he’d be the person she knew he could be.

Be the young, excited author he’d been once upon a time.

The one she’d looked up to.

The one who’d been her hero.

But that Neil Storm was gone, and this echo of that boy she’d once admired was left in his place. And it was all her fault.

Chapter 4

NEIL

Neil sighed as his fingers tangled in his hair. How did she know just how to infuriate him? Neil was terrible in social situations, and her presence only seemed to make it worse for inexplicable reasons. He ran his hand over his forehead, feeling the whisper-thin scar beneath his fingers.

He hated to admit it, but all these years, Neil had unknowingly made publishing that much more difficult for her, and the thought made his hands clench into fists even now. It should have been fun, angering Penelope Skinner, but there was an itch at the back of his mind. She’d had the guts to speak the truth on that fateful day, and he’d had the nerve to say those things because he was too damn scared of the truth.

Damn it, Skinner was right. He was the Native author people could stomach, the one who wrote books the woke white feminists in the world could relate to. No one had ever questioned his right to be in that seat. Neil was Native American, and that’s all that ever mattered—until Penelope Skinner opened her mouth. She came in with her hard truths, and no one had listened because she was a one-hit wonder, and Neil Storm was a household name.

But Neil had listened. Even though he’d tried to block out her voice, he’d heard every word she said. He had worked so hard toget here, but Penelope Skinner had been right about one thing, whether or not she’d said it outright: Neil Storm was a coward.

Neil breathed in the musk and mud and dampness of the castle. It smelled ancient. He pictured the old, torn wallpaper covering stone, tapestries hanging above fireplaces, large leather chairs, and long, food-adorned tables in cool stone rooms. When he closed his eyes, he painted lavish scenes of parties with nobles dressed in rich clothes. He imagined Scottish lairds and bards before the hearth, singing in Scottish Gaelic.What a place it must have been,he marveled.

Exhaling, he opened his eyes. It had always been easy for him to imagine, to pretend. It’s why he was an author; it was second nature for him. But his creative well had run dry, and he was tired of the same stories he’d been writing for years, the very ones that publishing was expecting of him.

The ones Penelope Skinner hated so much.

Where had his tenaciousness gone in the years since his debut? What happened to that energy, tothatNeil Storm?

A twig snapped from somewhere to his left, and Neil straightened in surprise, swiveling to get a better look. He didn’t know what he expected, but Penelope Skinner stood, her expression twisted into a grimace as if she’d been caught. She was half-hidden behind a stone wall, hands buried in moss as she swayed in place, trying to decide whether to stay or to go.

“Sorry. I didn’t see you. I was just going.”

She turned to leave, but Neil stood, smoothing down his fleece. He pictured her crying, the disappointment creasing her brow, and the lines around her mouth as she’d frowned. They had their differences, but Neil hated knowing he made her cry.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll go.”

Neither of them said anything. Neil watched her quietly, her eyes not quite meeting his. She folded and unfolded her arms, jaw clenched. Her glasses were askew, wisps of dark hair falling free ofher braid, and altogether, Neil could admit there was something almostsweetabout the woman.

In an “I’ll-throw-a-book-at-you-when-I’m-mad” kind of way.

Damn, that look. Neil cleared his throat and motioned to the little piles of rocks surrounding them. “We could also just sit here quietly?” he offered instead.

She stared at him, her expression blank but for the scrunching of her nose in thought. Finally, she nodded curtly, finding her own pile of stone. They sat in silence for a few minutes, crouched in the heart of the ruins, not quite looking at one another. Although he resisted at first, Neil watched her in his periphery. Her nostrils flared as her hands fiddled absently with the zipper on her jacket. She angled her head back to get a good look at the turrets of the castle and the trees that bowed inside the stone limits.

God, things couldn’t change between them. What had he been thinking? He wasn’t certain there was anything he could do to combat this level of animosity. So, without another word, Neil stood and spun on his heel toward the entrance.