Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Emery
The fog accompanies us to the restaurant with the tenacity of a nosy chaperone.
“It’s nice to be able to walk everywhere,” I say, glancing up at Declan.
He doesn’t respond right away. Maybe he’s never given a lot of thought to living in a small town. Or maybe he’s given it too much thought. “It is, until you’re ready for a change of scenery.”
“Are you? You said you’ve lived here your whole life, right?”
“I have.” He stops in front of a narrow, undecorated door. Nothing except for a wooden sign hanging above the door with the words Hollow Hearth carved into it indicates a business exists.
Declan pulls the door open, and gestures for me to step inside. The scent of roasted garlic and warm baked bread envelops me. My stomach rumbles. Maybe my steady diet of sugar and more sugar since I arrived in Crowsbridge Hollow has been a mistake.
Inside is all brick walls and mismatched wooden tables decorated with faux tealight candles. A long, shiny bar takes up one side of the room. The chalkboard menu above the bar boasts the words locally sourced ingredients and pasture raised.
A chipper hostess probably around my age steps in front of us, beaming up at Declan while ignoring my existence.
“Mr. Sterling!” She blinks and smiles so wide, it looks like she used toothpicks to prop open her jaw. “How nice to see you.”
I really need to reexamine this territorial feeling I have toward Declan. Just because we’re bound together by some curse doesn’t mean I need to slip into psycho mode every time a woman drifts into his orbit.
“Good evening, Harper.” He nods at the hostess and rests his hand on my lower back. “I’m showing my friend Emery around the Hollow and figured I had to start with the best food in town.”
The hostess—Harper apparently—blushes and ducks her head. “I’ll tell my dad you said that.” She glances at me and a slow frown works over her face. “Is this your first visit to Crowsbridge Hollow?” she asks, grabbing two menus from behind a podium without taking her eyes off me.
“It is, yes.”
She quickly shakes her head. “Oh, you look familiar for some reason.” Her frown deepens.
I shrug, unsure of what to say to that. Is she planning to seat us, or not?
“Emery!” Her eyes widen with shock and what I hope is happiness. “Emery Corbin? Curious Crow?”
Still not used to being recognized out in the wild, I stammer, “That’s my YouTube channel, yes.”
“Wow! I love your channel.” She squeezes her eyes shut like she’s mentally reviewing all my episodes. “I loved your investigation into the Salem Point Hotel. I’ve watched it like three times.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, feeling embarrassed now. Other patrons and the guy behind the bar are starting to stare.
Two more customers step in the door, crowding us forward. Declan clears his throat and gives Harper a pointed look.
“How do you feel about the window table?” she asks Declan.
He glances at me and I shrug. I just want to get out of the way and have people stop staring at me. “Anywhere is fine,” I murmur.
He nods and Harper leads us to a private nook with a table and two chairs set in front of a large floor-to-ceiling window.
Declan pulls out my chair and I almost swoon to the floor. Can’t remember the last time a guy did that for me.
“Thank you,” I whisper as I slide into the chair and he helps me push it in.
His large frame practically dwarfs the seat across from me.
Harper hands us the menus, still flashing her pageant smile.
“Tonight’s specials are the maple-glazed pork chop with roasted apples, the butternut squash risotto, and our pan-seared trout in brown-butter lemon sauce.
And the venison shepherd’s pie is back.” She nods at Declan like she already knows it’s his favorite.
“Everyone’s been asking for it.” She pauses, tapping her chin.
“Oh! And Gloria made this pumpkin ravioli with toasted walnuts and parmesan cream. It’s amazing. ”
“I don’t know if I even need to look at my menu,” I say, staring at the short list of the regular dishes in front of me. “All of those sound so good.”
“I’ll give you a minute and bring some bread and water,” Harper chirps before gliding off.
Declan leans forward, elbows on the table. “What are you thinking?” His steady gaze bores into me as if my dinner selection is his top priority.
“I’m torn between the pork and the pumpkin ravioli,” I admit, praying he doesn’t make fun of me for wanting to order something seasonal.
He nods slowly. “You can’t go wrong with anything you pick. Gloria’s solid.” He drops his gaze to his menu. “Order both if you want.”
“I can’t eat two meals.”
He leans back and pats his stomach. “I’ll eat whatever you don’t. No worries.”
His expression is so full of boyish charm that laughter bursts out of me before I can stop it. “Is that how you grew so big and strong?”
His grin sharpens. “Among other things.”
Harper reappears with water and a basket of warm bread that smells like heaven. “Know what you want?”
“I’ll have the pork,” I say quickly before I can overthink it.
Declan closes his menu. “The shepherd’s pie. And would Gloria mind making a small plate of that pumpkin ravioli to start?”
Harper’s lips curve. “For you? Gloria will make anything.” She winks at him and takes the menus before disappearing again.
The clink of dishes and low hum of conversation fills the space between us. Declan tears a piece of bread in half and slides it across the table toward me. “You’ll like this. It’s baked with honey and sea salt.”
I take it, the warmth seeping into my fingers. “You sure you don’t own this place? They treat you like royalty.”
He lifts one shoulder in an embarrassed half-shrug. “Small town. Harper’s dad was a friend of my mother’s.”
I tear a piece of bread and pop it in my mouth to stop myself from asking if he has history with Harper.
The bread melts against my tongue, nutty and warm, keeping my mouth occupied so I don’t say something that makes me sound unhinged.
I need to stop turning every woman in this town into competition.
“Sounds like you don’t spend all of your time brooding in your haunted tattoo shop? ”
He lets out a low, rumbling laugh that warms the mood between us.
“Brooding?” he echoes, shaking his head. “Maybe I do that more than I realize.”
“It’s not a bad thing,” I say quickly. “You seem like someone who carries a lot.”
His smile softens, but he doesn’t deny it. “Some weights are hard to let go of.”
I trace the rim of my water glass, watching the condensation bead under my finger. “Yeah. I understand that feeling.”
He leans forward, elbows resting on the table. “What weight are you carrying, Emery?”
He asks with kindness, but the question still cuts right through me. “The kind that follows you even when you move away.”
His brow furrows, concern flickering across his face. “Why’d you make the switch from serious journalism to…” He trails off as if he’s searching for a word that won’t insult me. “Debunking myths?”
Since I’m well aware of how little he thinks of my current “career” I appreciate his effort. It pushes me to share more than I normally would.
“I know you said because you like to travel and investigate.” He hesitates. “But it seems like there’s more to it?”
“My mom swore she had ‘gifts,’” I say after a long pause.
“She made her whole life about the supernatural—chasing spirits, ghosts, past lives, angel numbers, signs. I grew up with séances instead of story time.” I give a small, humorless laugh.
“Most kids had nightlights. I had candles and salt circles.”
Declan doesn’t look away. “That’s a heavy load for a kid to handle.”
“It was,” I admit. “It was terrifying sometimes. We moved a lot. She’d have strangers in and out of the house to bless it or cleanse it, depending on what phase of her supernatural journey she was in at the moment.
” I take a deep breath, the old bitterness giving way to the shame I’ve worked hard to bury.
“She spent all her money on psychics and fortune tellers. We ended up living in our car more than once. Ended up in foster care for a short time.”
“That must’ve made school even more difficult.”
For someone who seems to have had a relatively stable life—he still owns his ancestral home after all—he seems to have compassion instead of contempt for my story.
“Sure. Kids were mean.” Heat creeps over my cheeks and I nervously tug at the ends of my freshly washed hair.
“I wasn’t always…well-groomed or dressed in clean clothes, so kids—and even teachers sometimes—made fun of me.
Plus, sometimes my mom would show up rambling about spooky nonsense that freaked people out. ”
“That’s rough. I’m sorry you went through that.”
I lift one shoulder but can’t meet his concerned stare. “It’s fine. I survived.”
He studies me for a long moment. “Doesn’t sound fine,” he says quietly.
The warmth in his voice wraps around me. I glance up and find him watching me like he’s memorizing every word I’ve said, and he’s waiting for more. It’s too much and yet I want to bask in his attention.
“She did the best she could with the skills she had,” I whisper. “At least that’s what I’ve come to believe with time and distance.”
“That’s very generous.” His brow furrows. “And probably a healthier attitude than most would have.”
“I…I had to make peace with my past somehow. She’s gone. I was busy with school and stuff, so we hadn’t spoken in a while.” I shrug as if that doesn’t haunt me some nights. “I’ll never get closure with her, you know?”
His expression softens. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know about living without closure.”
He probably understands better than anyone. His sister disappeared without a trace and his parents have passed.
“I know you do,” I whisper.
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise maybe, or gratitude—but it’s gone before I can be sure. He nods once, a small, solemn motion.