Page 6 of The House on Haven Way

“Pump the brakes, geez, girl. I was just kidding. If Grandma Ellen could hear us talking about ghosts, she’d slap a Bible in our hands and church hats on our heads so fast we’d have whiplash.”

“Insensitive much?” I grumble, but it’s completely true.

“Sorry, babe. I can come out for Halloween if you want.”

Halloween with Honey has been a tradition since we were teenagers and both of our families moved to Boston to help take care of Grandma Ellen. The parties Honey threw were legendary.

But this year, I don’t think I can handle the noise. I hope she’s not thinking it’ll be like that in this little mountain town. “It’ll probably be low-key here.”

I can hear the fake sigh in Honey’s voice. “Yeah, yeah. Just living in the middle of nowhere. Near the woods. By a cemetery. Waiting for the plaid-wearing axe murderer to strike.”

“Honey Ella Pierce!”

“Amber Amethyst Pierce!”

Yes. We both got stupid names. Fossilized tree sap, a shiny rock, and bee spit. “Using my full government name? See if you get an invite. Those bearded mountain men look pretty tasty to me, axe or no axe,” I tease.

“You used mine first. Hey, serious question. Do you want me to come up? You’ll hurt your back worse if you try to move all your stuff in.”

“I hired a local guy, Promises Kept. Ooh! Girl, this is it.” I flex my fingers on the wheel as I pass the cemetery and see my house—a perfect little retro rancher. Peeling paint on the fence. Peeling white paint on the siding. I don’t care. It looks perfect. It looks like the place where I’d wear pearls and bake apple pies.

Or wear baggy sweaters, cup a mug of cocoa in my hands, and watch a September sunset before lighting scented candles and spending hours perfecting a gourmet meal.

For one.

“I have to go. I see the moving guys next to the truck.”

“Are they hot?”

“What is wrong with you?”

“I don’t have a man.”

Well, I get that. “No, they’re not hot.” That’s a lie, actually. Both of them are way above average height, both have gorgeous hair—one that’s like a chestnut brown, one that’s dark black—and muscles.

Sweet. Jesus. The muscles.

One is grim and unsmiling, walking up and holding out a hand. “Nigel Salvin. This is Hugo Rockland.”

Hugo gives me the sweetest timid smile and waves from behind the other man. As if he could hide.

Not with a body like that.

And not from me.

Awww. Sweet summer child. I’d eat him for breakfast.

If my back wouldn’t put me in traction after the first two minutes.

“I’m Amber Pierce. Homeowner,” I say proudly.

“We have your diagrams. Are these general specifications, or do you want them to the exact inch per scale?” Nigel asks, taking my email with a scanned drawing out of his pocket.

At first, I think he’s being snarky, but then I realize he isn’t. He wants to know. And I get the feeling that if I want it done like my drawing, down to the inch, he’ll do it.

“Just a general guideline,” I say, slightly awed by the level of customer service.

“On it.”