Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Emery
What an absolute jackass!
I stalk into the fog, boots smacking the sidewalk harder than necessary. My cheeks burn. Not from embarrassment—nope—from pure irritation.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter. “Guy’s built like a Norse god, smells like sin and iron, but can’t string together more than two words without being a rude twatwaffle.”
Crowsbridge Hollow’s Main Street glitters like a holiday nightmare.
Red and black bulbs blink in time with the music spilling faintly from a nearby speaker—a dark synth tune that could have been borrowed from the soundtrack of a John Carpenter movie instead of a cheery carol.
A garland of pine and bones droops from a lamppost, sparkling in the fog.
I clutch my bag tighter. This whole creepy Christmas thing Crowsbridge Hollow does might be fun if I wasn’t just dismissed by the biggest jerk in town.
What did I expect? Open arms and the keys to all the town’s secrets?
Of course not. But I sure didn’t expect to get tossed out as if I’m a pesky salesperson popping up to push an extended car warranty.
The worst part? I can’t stop replaying the way his arms looked folded across that ridiculous chest, muscles pulling shirt fabric tight.
Or the way his tattoos seemed to shift when I wasn’t staring straight at them.
Or the way his dark eyes locked on mine, as if he could see every secret I store in the back of my skull.
Nope. Not thinking about him. Not worth wasting the brain power.
I slow my steps, dig in my tote for my notebook, uncap my pen, and scrawl across the page: Ink & Iron guy = hostile source. Revisit. Then, beneath it, almost against my will, I add,
Tantalizingly tall. Too hot for his own good. Grumpy AF.
My phone buzzes. I stop in front of a shop with a small wooden sign swinging above the door that reads Chocolate Enchantments.
Gold lettering promises gourmet fudge in twenty-five fantastically fudgy flavors, hand-stirred in copper kettles.
The window display features candy canes arranged like bones and dark chocolate truffles shaped like tiny coffins.
My mouth waters. I’ll die on the hill that peppermint is Beelzebub’s candy, but I could devour a bag of those truffles and a pound or two of fudge right now.
My phone buzzes again.
Wren: Interview gold?
Me: Interview brick wall. A very large, very rude brick wall.
Wren: Sounds hot. Obsessed yet?
I snap my notebook shut like that’ll somehow silence her, even though she’s six hours away.
Fine. Maybe she’s right. But in my defense—when a man acts like he’s hiding the Ark of the Covenant under his shirt, it’s practically journalistic malpractice not to dig deeper.
Me: No comment.
Picturing Wren’s laughing face, I shove my notebook back in my bag. My plan was to hit the cemetery next and get B-roll of the Widow, but all I can think about is the shop door I just walked out of. The gravel in his voice. His big hands. The way he called me little bird.
The click of a lock turning makes me glance over my shoulder.
“Not again,” I groan. Apparently, my epic storm-off didn’t take me far enough.
There he is. Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Rude himself, pulling the iron-banded door shut and fitting a key into the lock. He’s even bigger outside the shop, shoulders broad enough to block the window, hair a mess of dark curls catching fog, creating a halo he doesn’t deserve.
If I were smarter, I’d run in the opposite direction.
Instead, apparently being a glutton for punishment, I shout, “Hey!”
My voice carries, harsher than I intended.
He turns, eyes narrowing. “What?”
“You never answered my question,” I call back.
His frown deepens, but he takes a few steps closer. “Which one?”
“All of them.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. For a second, I’m positive he’s about to walk away without another word. Instead, he keeps coming, boots heavy on the pavement, handsome face screwed into a scowl.
Close up, he’s intimidating as hell. Taller than I thought. We’re so close, the heat radiating from his body sears my skin. The air between us tightens. Above, a crow caws, loud and insistent. Its wings ruffle the garland hanging from the nearest lamppost, scattering fake snow like ash.
“You don’t give up, do you?” he says.
“Not my style.” I lift my chin. “Journalist, remember? I take my job seriously.”
His gaze flicks to the brooch again, then back to my eyes. His expression seems to shift between irritation and curiosity. At his side, his hand twitches like he’s fighting the urge to shove me away.
“What’s your name?” I blurt. “We never properly introduced ourselves.”
He hesitates. Too long for normal interaction. “Declan.”
What a perfect name for this towering, tattooed grump.
I press my lips together, waiting for him to ask for my name. He doesn’t.
Forcing the sting out of my expression, I work a professional smile onto my face. “Emery.”
He nods once, curt, as if he couldn’t care less. “So you said before.”
“Riiight,” I say, drawing out the word to match his irritated energy. “Unlike you, I have manners. Was that so hard?”
His mouth curves, almost imperceptibly. “Hard things usually aren’t a problem for me.”
My breath hitches. Oh. Was that a line?
I slowly run my gaze over his arms and chest. “I can see that.”
His eyes widen, then he turns back toward his shop. But not fast enough for me to miss the twitch at the corner of his mouth. Piece by piece I’m chiseling away at his grouchy armor.
He mutters a low warning. “Stay out of the cemetery and away from the Widow’s hill after midnight.”
I freeze. How did he know?
But he’s already moving, boots thudding away, shoulders squared against the fog.
I’m left standing on Main Street, heart racing as the mist thickens around the lamplight.
A few more rounds with him and he’ll crack—I can feel it.
Grinning, I jam my hands into my coat pockets.
Why did Declan warn me not to go to the Widow’s hill? And what’s more dangerous? Whatever waits in the cemetery or the man who warned me to stay away?