Chapter 4
Gwen should have gone straight home after the tour.
A sensible woman would have, especially with the temperature dropping and clouds gathering overhead. Instead, once she was sure Forbes had actually left the graveyard, she lingered just beyond the gate, breath clouding in the chill air, replaying their conversation with embarrassing thoroughness.
Not the compliments—though “your research is exemplary” had landed with surprising impact.
No, she kept circling back to the contradiction of him.
The dismissal five days ago versus the defense tonight.
How he’d stepped forward when that tourist challenged her, his accent deepening as if defending her had cost him some of his composure.
“Actually, oral tradition can be remarkably accurate, aye?”
The aye had surprised her. A crack in his careful polish.
Or maybe she was reading too much into a simple word.
She huffed out a breath and started toward home, the ancient iron gate creaking shut behind her.
This is how it started with Mason, she reminded herself sharply.
Intellectual connection. Shared interests. Respect for her work—until he realized she actually believed in the family traditions he found “anthropologically fascinating.”
Mason, who’d asked probing questions about her grandmother’s rituals and then gotten uncomfortable when he understood they weren’t just quaint folklore. Who’d ultimately decided that dating a woman from a “folklore-practicing family” wasn’t compatible with his academic reputation.
“It’s not you,” he’d said, in that condescending tone she’d grown to hate. “It’s just... my colleagues would never take me seriously if they knew I was involved with someone who actually practices... that sort of thing.”
Forbes was a writer too. A successful one, with bestselling books and a reputation to protect. Why would he be any different?
Because he defended you tonight, a quiet voice whispered. Mason never did that.
Gwen shook her head and picked up her pace.
Mrs. King was closing up her herb shop for the night. She glanced up as Gwen passed. “Good tour tonight, dear?”
“The usual,” Gwen said, a little too quickly, and waved as she hurried on.
As she turned onto her street, Charles from the apothecary raised a hand in greeting from where he was sweeping the sidewalk.
“How’d it go tonight?”
“The usual ghost tour.”
“Saw the MacBeans’ Scottish guest tagging along.” His eyebrows rose meaningfully. “Looked pretty interested in the tour guide, if you ask me.”
“It was research. He’s writing a book.”
“Uh-huh.” Charles’s grin widened. “Though from where I was standing, he spent more time watching you than watching where he was walking.”
“Goodnight, Charles,” Gwen said firmly, hurrying past.
His laughter followed her down the street.
She climbed her porch steps, digging for her keys with cold fingers. The thing was—and she hated herself for even thinking it—Forbes’s expression when he’d asked about her research had held genuine interest. Not just curiosity, but what looked almost like respect.
Enough, she chided herself. One decent conversation doesn’t erase “atmospheric entertainment.”
But she kept remembering how he’d said, “I recognized that tone. I was awful. I apologize.”
Simple. Direct. No hedging, no qualifiers.
How many men actually admitted when they were wrong?
Gwen unlocked her door and stepped into the warmth of home, shrugging off her coat.
The candle on her entryway table—the one she always left burning low, an old habit from her grandmother—flickered sharply as she passed. The flame leaned toward her, straining against the wick, before settling back to stillness.
She paused. Watched it for a moment.
Nothing. Just a draft from the door.
Sure it was.
She poured herself a glass of water and leaned against the kitchen counter, staring at nothing.
Somewhere in Salem, Forbes MacLeod was probably organizing his notes with meticulous precision, filing her away under “useful local contact” or maybe “surprisingly competent despite supernatural tourism angle.”
Or maybe he was thinking about Wednesday the same way she was—half wanting it to arrive, half hoping it wouldn’t.
Her phone buzzed.
She pulled it out, expecting a message from Lilith.
Instead:
Thank you for letting me observe your tour tonight. Your research is exemplary. I look forward to Wednesday. - FM
Gwen stared at the screen, a smile tugging at her lips despite her best efforts.
Wait. How had he gotten her number?
Lilith. Of course. Which meant Lilith was probably already planning their wedding in her head.
Her phone buzzed again.
The burgundy coat suits you.
Oh.
Oh.
That wasn’t professional. That was—
Her arm tingled. The same spot where he’d caught her five days ago. Phantom warmth blooming under her skin like her magic remembered his touch even when her mind was trying to forget.
Stop it, she told her own traitorous power. We are not doing this.
Her magic, predictably, ignored her.
She hit Lilith’s contact before she could overthink it.
“I was wondering when you’d call.” Lilith’s voice was warm and entirely too knowing. “Alan said Forbes came back looking ‘considerably more thoughtful than when he left.’ Wouldn’t talk about the tour at all.”
“He texted me. Just now.” Gwen’s voice went slightly higher. “He complimented my coat.”
“The burgundy one? The one that makes your eyes look like sea glass?”
“That’s not—the point is, it wasn’t professional.”
“Gwen Bishop.” Lilith’s voice was gentle but firm. “A man who only cared about your research wouldn’t notice your coat. He definitely wouldn’t text you about it.”
“I know.” Gwen pressed her free hand to her forehead. “That’s the problem.”
“That’s not a problem. That’s progress.”
“It’s a problem because I don’t trust it.” She took a breath. “Mason started the same way.”
“Forbes isn’t Mason.” Lilith paused. “You’re allowed to be hopeful, you know. Even if it’s scary.”
Gwen rubbed the heel of her hand over her eyes, as if that could quiet her thoughts. “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all I ask. Now go respond to his text before he thinks you’re not interested.”
“I haven’t decided if I am.”
“Gwen.”
“Fine. Goodnight, Lilith.”
She hung up and stared at her phone.
Professional. She could manage professional.
She typed:
Thank you for the backup tonight. And for the apology.
She hit send, then stared at the screen. Something lighter. Something that acknowledged his compliment without making too much of it.
Her fingers moved before her brain could catch up:
The Highland accent suits you.
There. Giving back exactly what he’d given her.
She set her phone face-down and refused to check it again.
Her arm still tingled faintly. Warmth where there shouldn’t be any. Her magic hummed low under her skin, like a pulse she couldn’t slow.
We are not doing this, she told her magic again.
But she already knew she was lying.
Two days until Wednesday.
She was almost certain she could convince herself this was a terrible idea by then.
Almost.