Page 16 of If I Stopped Haunting You

“Who’s that?” Pen asked, turning to Laszlo.

“The groundskeeper.”

“She seems exciting,” Storm cut in, leaning around Pen. He was so close that his hand brushed her thigh, and Pen flinched away, trying to put some distance between them.

“Would you give me some space,” she gasped.

“I’m not exactly trying to cuddle you, Skinner.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Well, it’s cold,” Laszlo said, motioning to the castle. “Unless you two would rather stay out here and bicker in the snow all night?”

Pen shook her head and rounded toward the back of the van for her things. Laszlo waved to them as he hauled his and Daniela’s bags up the steep steps. Pen stopped short as Storm motioned to her large patchwork duffel bag in the trunk, his suitcase already on the ground by his feet.

“This yours?”

“Yes?”

He looked from the bag to her. “No offense, but it’s hideous.”

She sucked on her teeth, swallowing her retort.You can do this, Pen. Play. Nice. For Laszlo. Only for Laszlo.

“It’s made of recycled material.” She couldn’t help the bit of pride that seeped into her tone.

He ogled it. “I can tell.” Storm raised a brow, and she wanted to pinch it between her fingers. “Penelope Skinner, saving one tree at a time with her… bag.” She opened her mouth to retort, but he lifted her bag, weighing it. “It’s heavy.”

Pen nodded, puffing out her cheeks.Calm. Cool.“Ugh, yeah, but I can—”

“I’ve got it.” He threw the thing across his shoulders, large and bulky and nearly bursting at the seams, before closing the trunk and grabbing his bag.

“You really don’t need to,” she called after him, struggling to jog across the gravel drive. She nearly slammed into him as he spun toward her, the bag held out to her. He waited a beat, shaking it. When she didn’t take it, he sighed.

“No, I really don’t. I could let you take it up if you’re so hellbent on doing everything yourself. It’s all yours.”

Pen stared at it for a moment, dreading the thought of carrying it upstairs. She reached out as if to take it, but he snatched it back with another long, blush-inducing sigh.

“Sometimes, Skinner, people just want to help.” He turned and hurried up the steps, disappearing past the groundskeeper without so much as a hello.

Why. The question bouncing around her head was:Why?She thought back to her conversation with Laszlo, to that pause after she’d asked if Storm was going. Why hadn’t she seen this coming? Why hadn’t she foretold this, the most dreadful of scenarios?

Out of breath, Pen stopped on the stairs. Snow flitted down around her and she shivered, pulling her jacket close. She wanted to tear her bag away from him. She wanted to grind his face into the snow and demand to know why he was being nice. The Neil Storm she knew didn’t carry her bag or help her get out of trouble.

The Neil Storm she knew didn’t cup her face gently and almost kiss her.

Damn it, now she was thinking about the castle ruins again. Pen tugged violently on the end of her braid as she stalked up the snowy steps toward the castle. She wanted to demand why everything he did contradicted the Neil Storm she knew. He shouldn’t be sitting with her in the car in companionable silence. He shouldn’t be carrying her bag, and he certainly shouldn’t be touching her the way he had.

“Ye look like ye want to punch something,” the groundskeeper called out from the top step. Pen paused on the steps, scrutinizing the woman.

She wasn’t much older than them, in her early forties with graying blond hair and watchful, dark eyes. Her frame was hidden under a large, heavy coat, a knit scarf wrapped tightly around herneck like a protective charm. Hands worn from years of hard work fiddled absently with a giant key ring at her belt.

Feeling a bit like a toddler, Pen stomped her way up the last few steps, stopping before the woman. “Or someone,” she responded, glaring through the door.

“Fanny.” The woman offered Pen a hand. “I’ll be giving yer group a tour of the grounds.”

Pen perked up, eyes crinkling as she smiled. “We get a full tour? I thought we’d just get a key in one of those little boxes.”

“Ye thought I’d leave the key in a wee box, did ye?” Pen shrugged sheepishly, and Fanny laughed. “Americans. Yer used to normal doors.” She brandished a large skeleton key. “Cannae exactly fit this into one of those wee boxes.”