Chapter 3 – Nora
My closet has betrayed me. After forty-five minutes and a pile of discarded options that would make Marie Kondo weep, I'm still staring helplessly at my reflection.
"It's not a date," I remind my anxious expression in the mirror. "It's a haunted house. With cobwebs. And fake blood."
Pudding watches from his perch on my bed, his eyes judging my fourth outfit change with disdain.
"You're right," I tell him, smoothing down the sweater I've finally settled on—russet-colored cashmere that brings out the warm undertones in my skin and happens to hug my curves in a way that doesn't make me want to hide under a blanket. "This is ridiculous. He's just being neighborly."
Yet here I am, applying mascara and a tinted lip balm that tastes like cinnamon, my heart thumping like I'm seventeen again.
The knock on my door comes precisely at three o'clock. Of course he's punctual. That's probably a quarterback thing, timing and precision and all those athletic virtues I know nothing about.
I take one final glance in the mirror, and head downstairs, stopping to scratch Pudding behind the ears. "Don't wait up," I whisper, and immediately feel silly. It's a haunted house, not prom night.
When I open the door, my rehearsed casual greeting evaporates. Devin stands on my porch in dark jeans and a forest green shirt that makes his hazel eyes look impossibly warm.
"Hi," I manage, suddenly aware of my racing pulse.
His smile widens as he takes me in. "Hi yourself. You look great."
"It's just a sweater," I say automatically, then mentally kick myself. Just take the compliment, Nora.
"It's a good sweater." His eyes linger for a heartbeat too long to be casual. "Ready to face your fears?"
"Absolutely not," I admit, stepping outside and locking the door behind me. "But I was promised cider and donuts for my trauma, so here we are."
Devin laughs, the sound rich and warm in the autumn air. "I keep my promises."
His truck is parked at the curb, a dark blue Ford that's seen its share of miles but gleams with recent care. He opens the passenger door for me, and the gesture is so unexpectedly gentlemanly that I momentarily forget how to function.
"Thanks," I murmur, climbing in.
As we drive through Whitetail Falls, golden afternoon light spills across the dashboard. Main Street is decked out for fall—pumpkins lining the sidewalks, corn stalks flanking doorways, and orange and gold banners announcing the Fall Festival.
"Town goes all out for autumn," Devin comments, one hand resting easily on the steering wheel. "I'd forgotten how much."
"It's our specialty," I reply, watching his profile as he drives. "Summer belongs to the lakeside towns. Winter to the ski resorts. But fall? Fall is pure Whitetail Falls magic."
He glances at me, expression softening. "You sound like one of your books."
"Occupational hazard," I say with a small smile. "I start thinking in chapter headings and sensory details after a while."
"So what would this be?" he asks, curiosity warming his voice. "If it were one of your books?"
Heat climbs my neck. "Oh, um... probably something like 'The quarterback and the bookworm embark on a terrifying adventure through plastic skeletons and strobe lights.'"
"Solid title. Needs more adjectives though."
"The ruggedly handsome quarterback and the hopelessly awkward bookworm?"
His laugh fills the truck cab. "Much better. Though I'd argue with 'awkward.'"
"You haven't seen me try to navigate social situations yet," I warn him. "There's a reason I spend most of my time with fictional people. They're more predictable."
"Maybe I like unpredictable," he says, and the way he glances at me makes my skin prickle with awareness.
Before I can respond, we're pulling into the Fire Station's parking lot, already half-full with volunteers' cars.
The brick building is transformed with fake cobwebs draping the windows, skeletons dangle from the eaves, and a massive banner proclaims "FIRE STATION HAUNTED HOUSE" in dripping red letters.
My stomach gives an anxious flip. "Just so we're clear, I wasn't joking about being terrible with haunted houses."
Devin kills the engine and turns to me, his expression suddenly gentle. "We don't have to go in if you don't want to. I just thought it might be fun to show you around before the crowds arrive tonight. But we can go straight to The Copper Kettle instead."
His consideration catches me off guard. "No, it's okay. I can do this." I square my shoulders. "Besides, I'm curious to see the masterpiece you and the firemen have created."
The smile he gives me is worth every future jump scare I'll endure.
Outside, a few volunteers bustle around the grounds, stringing lights and arranging hay bales. From somewhere inside, I hear the cackle of a mechanical witch.
Devin leads me toward the side entrance, his hand hovering near the small of my back, not quite touching, but close enough that I feel the heat of him. Chief Hawkins spots us immediately, his round face lighting up beneath his mustache.
"Turner! And Nora Bell!" he booms, striding over. "Excellent! We need someone to test the Tunnel of Terror!"
Devin shoots me an apologetic look. "Sorry, Chief, I promised Nora no tunnel testing. Maybe later?"
The disappointment on Chief Hawkins' face is comical. "Fine, fine. But I expect detailed feedback on the rest. The northeastern fire chiefs' association gave us second place last year. Second! To Burlington! Unacceptable."
As he hustles away, I whisper to Devin, "I didn't realize haunted houses were so competitive."
"Firefighter rivalries are intense," he says seriously. "Last year Burlington had a chainsaw guy who jumped out of a real coffin."
"Please tell me we don't have a chainsaw guy."
His grin is not reassuring. "No comment."
The fire station's apparatus bay has been transformed into a labyrinth of black curtains, eerie lighting, and surprisingly elaborate set pieces. Volunteers make final adjustments to fog machines and motion sensors. Someone tests a strobe light, sending disorienting flashes through the space.
"You really got roped into all this on your first weekend back?" I ask, genuinely impressed.
Devin shrugs, but I catch the hint of a pleased smile. "Chief's son played football for me when I coached a summer camp years ago. And honestly, it feels good to be useful for something besides signing autographs."
The vulnerability in his admission catches me off guard. Before I can respond, he takes my hand, his fingers warm against mine. "Come on, I'll give you the VIP tour."
My heart stutters at the casual contact. His palm is rough with calluses, engulfing my hand completely. It should feel presumptuous, this hand-holding, but instead it feels natural, like we've done this a hundred times before.
The haunted house is both cheesy and impressively detailed.
Devin guides me through cobwebbed corridors, past animatronic zombies, and through a graveyard populated with firefighters in various states of decay.
He points out his contributions—a particularly effective jump scare involving pressurized air and a trapdoor that made me yelp embarrassingly loud.
"That was my design," he says proudly after I nearly jump out of my skin. "Chief called it 'inspired.'"
"I have other words for it," I grumble, but I can't stop the laughter bubbling up. Despite my fears, there's something freeing about being scared in this controlled, ridiculous environment, especially with Devin's solid presence beside me.
At one point, a volunteer dressed as a mummy leaps out from behind a sarcophagus, and I instinctively grab Devin's arm with both hands, pressing myself against his side. I feel his chuckle more than hear it, rumbling through his chest.
"You know that was Mark from the hardware store, right?" he murmurs, but makes no move to dislodge me.
"Shut up. I'm method-testing your haunted house."
"Is that what we're calling it?" His voice drops lower, sending a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear.
I'm suddenly aware of how close we're standing, how my body is pressed along the length of his side, how his muscles feel beneath my fingers. I should step away.
I don't.
"What else would we call it?" My voice comes out huskier than intended.
His eyes meet mine in the dim, flickering light, and something electric passes between us. "I have a few ideas."
The moment stretches, until a crash and curse from the next room breaks the spell. I reluctantly release his arm, though he catches my hand again as we continue the tour.
By the time we reach the exit, I'm breathless from a combination of laughter, lingering adrenaline, and the constant, humming awareness of Devin beside me.
"What's your verdict?" Devin asks as we emerge into the cool evening air. "Are we getting that Burlington championship?"
"Definitely," I assure him. "Though I might be biased since my tour guide was considerably more attractive than anything they could offer."
The words slip out before I can censor them. Devin's eyebrows rise, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Was that a compliment, Nora Bell?"
Heat floods my cheeks. "It was an objective observation."
"I'll take it." He tugs me gently toward a quiet corner of the grounds, where several hay bales are arranged around a small bonfire.
The flames cast dancing light across his features, highlighting the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth.
"Want to sit for a minute before we head to The Copper Kettle? "
I nod, suddenly shy again. We settle on a hay bale just far enough from the main activity to feel private. The bonfire crackles and pops, sending sparks spiraling into the darkening sky.
I shiver slightly as the temperature drops, and Devin immediately shrugs out of his jacket.
"Here," he says, draping it around my shoulders before I can protest.
The warmth of it envelops me, along with his scent. It's such a cliché, the jacket offering, straight out of every romance novel ever written. But clichés become clichés because they work, and feeling wrapped in his lingering body heat makes my insides melt in ways I couldn't have anticipated.
"Thank you," I murmur, pulling it closer around me.
He watches me with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken.
"I'm glad you came today," Devin says finally, his voice low. "Even if I did subject you to firefighter-grade terror."
"It wasn't so bad." I smile up at him. "I might have exaggerated my fear slightly."
"Slightly?" His eyebrow lifts in amusement. "You nearly climbed me like a tree when the zombie hand grabbed your ankle."
"That was a perfectly reasonable reaction to unwanted zombie touching!"
He laughs, the sound warming me more than the fire. "I'm not complaining."
Our eyes meet, and the laughter fades into something deeper. Devin's gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes, a silent question hovering between us. My heart hammers against my ribs as he shifts slightly closer on the hay bale, his knee brushing mine.
"Nora," he says, my name sounding treasured in his voice. "I've been wanting to do something all day."
"What's that?" I barely recognize my own voice, breathless and hushed.
His hand comes up to cup my cheek, rough palm against soft skin. "This," he murmurs, and then he's leaning in, giving me time to pull away if I want to.
I don't want to.
When his lips touch mine, it's gentle at first, slow. A whisper of contact that sends electricity racing down my spine. Then I make a small sound in the back of my throat, and something shifts. His kiss deepens, becomes sure and heated, his hand sliding from my cheek to tangle in my hair.
I melt into him, my hands finding his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing beneath my palm. He tastes like mint and something sweet, and the sensation of his mouth moving against mine makes my head swim.
This kiss is nothing like the ones I write in my books. It's messier, more real, more overwhelming.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Devin rests his forehead against mine, his thumb tracing my cheekbone with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.
"Been wanting to do that since you chased your cat across the street," he admits, voice rough.
"That long?" I tease breathlessly. "It took you a whole day?"
He laughs, the sound vibrating through both of us. "I was trying to be a gentleman."
"Overrated quality," I murmur, and he kisses me again, quick and firm, like he can't help himself.
Around us, the world narrows to this moment. The crackling fire, the scent of smoke and fallen leaves, the distant murmur of voices, and Devin's hands cradling my face like I'm something precious.
"You still want that cider?" he asks after a moment, his thumb brushing my bottom lip.
I shake my head slowly. "Not yet. This is nice."
His smile is soft, intimate. "Yeah. It is."
As we sit together by the fire, his arm around me, my head against his shoulder, I think about all the romances I've written, all the first meetings and first kisses, all the moments of connection I've tried to capture in words. None of them prepared me for how this would feel.