Page 30 of Manors & Mischief

I shake my head. Just like when we were talking about the idea for Sleepy Hollow Manor, I lean forward, eager to hear what she has to say. I realize what I’m doing, though, and try to make myself relax by drinking another sip of my coffee.

“Devon was our hockey prodigy. He was a few years ahead of me in school but everyone knew his name. I know what you’re thinking, it’s a small town, of course everybody knew his name, but even he was different. He was destined for great things. He spent half a year in the National Hockey League. He was our town’s pride and joy. They erected a sign and everything, but then he got hurt.”

I gasp, my stomach falling. That’s what Mayor Lachey had meant about getting injured.

“Yeah, it was bad. He came back home to recuperate, did everything the doctors told him to, but he never fully healed enough to play at the level he was playing at. It ruined his professional career.”

Holy shit. I can’t help the overwhelming feeling of sadness I feel for him. It hits me like a ton of bricks. I glance up, and he’s just now pulling down the road, a plume of smoke trailing out of his exhaust.

Who knew Devon Lachey was a pro hockey player?

“Truth be told, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen him the same since.”

“Really?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “He’s still that nice, genuine guy he always was, but something shifted in him. I guess I would feel the same way if my biggest dream got taken away from me.”

I close my eyes at that. Pretty sure he accused me of stealing his dream of the house, I just hadn’t known he had a bigger one before that. I guess things really don’t work out in his favor.

The last thing I want to do is feel bad for the guy who’s been such a jerk to me, but I can’t help it. Poor Devon.

Maybe he does have a reason to be grumpy.

12

DEVON

Sleepy Hollow Manor—and Ember O’Malley—have consumed my time, and my mind, if I’m being honest. Since day one of helping her here, I can feel her presence like a knot in my spine. An awareness that she’s there, busying herself around the house. Working from day until night.

I’ve begun to know the faces she makes. Pensive. Dreamy. And yes, even the one where I can tell she’s been thinking about me the way I’ve been thinking about her. However, she’s avoided me since the Bonfire. Proof that I probably took things too far, or she’s just had enough of my bullshit.

Standing back from my handiwork, I do a once-over of the porch. Roof shingles replaced. Ceiling caulked around the chandelier. Floorboards ripped out and swapped with new ones that won’t give way under our weight. I even went through and touched up some of the areas with paint since she’s been at the town offices all morning, applying for more small business funding.

Yesterday, when I went inside to fix my own lunch, I saw a notebook open with business ideas. A Children’s Haunted House in the ballroom was at the top. Honestly, it’s genius, and I’m glad she talked with Rose about it. The kids are all afraid of this place anyway. Put them in the ballroom with a bunch of cutesy haunted Halloween decorations, and they’ll fall in love with this place and get scared all at the same time. Plus, it would be good to see these old walls filled with children’s laughter.

I think Old Man Lewis would approve.

A soft gasp sounds behind me. “Devon!”

I turn, paint brush still in hand like I’ve been caught with my fingers in the cookie jar. Ember has her palm resting on her chest, her gaze roaming over the front porch with her mouth parted.

“It looks beautiful.”

“Good bones,” I grind out. Her soft voice and the way she seems pleased with something I did makes me uneasy…in a good way. It makes me imagine things I have no business thinking about with a woman at least ten years younger than me and who probably hates me.

“Where did you find the paint?”

“The basement.”

She cuts her eyes to me, and they’re bright. Teasing. “What if I wasn’t going to keep this color?”

I narrow my gaze, and she immediately starts laughing.

That familiar pull to her rears its head again. Before too long, it’ll pull me right under.

She holds up a familiar paper bag. “I bought you a sandwich. I feel guilty that I haven’t been making you one.”

I don’t call her out on that because honestly, I deserve it. “Ruffo’s.”