Chapter 16
Marcus had met with the Manhattan renovation crew at seven a.m. at a bakery in Chantilly Falls.
While they’d been briefed in their contracts about the need to maintain his cover story and work alongside a local crew, he’d felt the need to go over it with them in person.
He’d also spent the time filling them in on the locals he’d hired.
Their strengths, weaknesses, and, because it mattered here, their quirks. That last part had taken the longest.
And through it all, Frankie’s voice kept threading into his thoughts. “I haven’t even called you Daddy yet.”
Now, it was nine o’clock. Both crews rolled up to Gi Gi’s Manor in a slow, rain-slick parade of trucks and vans, headlights cutting through the mist. Marcus stood at the top of the front steps, clipboard tucked under his arm, thermos in hand, and watched as boots crunched over gravel.
“Welcome. Come on in.”
Inside, he waved them toward a makeshift sawhorse table where the blueprints lay unrolled.
Beside it, an easel held a framed still from the 1974 remake of The Great Gatsby.
The manor had been built in 1921, the same roaring decade Fitzgerald helped make infamous.
And Gi Gi had adored that world…the novel, movie, and Robert Redford with equal devotion.
Marcus and his brothers had watched it more times than they’d care to admit, the last only a week before she died.
Restoring the manor in Gatsby’s image wasn’t just a design choice. It was a tribute.
“Welcome to Day One of what’s scheduled to be a twenty-eight-day project. Thus, the need for two crews,” Marcus told them. “When the renovations are complete, a designer will take over.”
“Feels like an optimistic plan,” someone muttered from the back.
“It is,” Marcus agreed. “But everything we need is already on-site. All permits are already approved and on file.” Marcus fought back a yawn.
He’d slept little after walking away from Frankie last night, and it showed.
“You’ll work side by side, so take a minute to introduce yourselves.
I have no patience for drama. Outsiders versus locals, city slickers versus country folk…
Doesn’t matter. One team. Same pay for everyone. ”
“Guess that means no brawls in the kitchen,” Harriet called.
“Especially not in the kitchen,” he said flatly.
A few eyebrows went up. Ruthie Sims, the town’s resident structural pessimist, gave a grunt of approval. According to Harriet, Ruthie hadn’t smiled since Gladys Monroe, former nun, got trapped in the church pantry overnight with a jar of expired pickles and a glitchy ghost-hunting app.
“Everyone on the same page? Anything I need to clarify?” Marcus asked.
“Until further notice, nobody should touch the railing on the third-floor landing. It’s cursed,” Harriet announced.
The out-of-towners laughed.
“She’s not kidding,” Ruthie added. “Last time she called something cursed, Delilah came down with the shingles.”
Marcus noted the confusion on the newcomers’ faces and sighed. “Harriet, why don’t you introduce yourself? Maybe explain your role in this project.”
Today she’d swapped her usual binoculars for an oversized canvas bag painted with Historical Energy Consultant in crooked lettering. Adjusting the strap, she strode forward with purpose.
Without her standard surveillance gear, she somehow looked more dangerous.
Steel-toed boots splattered with garden mulch.
A patchwork utility vest bristling with buttons ranging from I Brake for Ghosts to Don’t Tell Me to Smile, worn over a faded maxi dress that billowed like a haunted picnic blanket.
Her long braid was threaded with reflective tape and battery-powered twinkle lights, and her thick glasses magnified her eyes to raccoon-level intensity.
Marcus took a slow sip from his thermos and reminded himself he’d survived boardrooms, backstabbing billionaires, and a mob-connected childhood.
He could survive Harriet and her haunted banister.
What he hadn’t faced in those other battles were the taste of her still on his tongue and the sound of her breaking apart on his name.
Harriet reached the top step, gave the porch railing a wary glance, and faced the group.
“Harriet here,” she announced, all brisk authority. “My job is to assess the energetic integrity of the space and to make sure none of you tick off any residual spirits. Or active ones. Let’s not discriminate.”
One of the city crew cleared his throat, unsure if he wanted to object or ask for clarification.
Harriet slid her glasses down her nose and leveled him with a stare. “Laugh now, but if you go home with ghost hickeys and existential dread, don’t come crying to me.”
Marcus tried to focus on the words, but his mind betrayed him. Replacing ghost hickeys with the real ones he’d wanted to leave last night. The memory pressed against him like a bruise he couldn’t stop touching.
She pulled a copper dowsing rod from her bag, holding it like both explanation and warning.
“I’ve got a system. I’ll be flagging emotionally unstable rooms, mapping high-vibe zones, and set boundaries between the living and the…
less living. Steer clear of any doors marked with citrus-scented duct tape.
That means haunted, cursed, or emotionally clingy. ”
Then, she turned to Marcus and gave a curt nod. “The blueprints may show what’s structurally sound. I’m here for the soul of the place.”
Marcus almost smiled. If the soul of the place was anything like the one who’d spent last night in his guest room, tempting, unpredictable, and a little bit dangerous, they were in deep trouble.
Standing in the front of the group, Denny, one of the town’s retired volunteer firefighters and current self-appointed “ladder whisperer,” raised a hand.
“Yes?” Marcus pointed to him.
“I’m happy to pitch in,” Denny said. “I’ll hammer, haul, sweep, whatever you need. But I ain’t steppin’ foot in that room off the second floor. The one with the arched windows that overlook the back garden.”
A few heads turned. The out-of-towners glanced around like they were missing a key piece of folklore.
“That room’s haunted,” Denny said flatly. “Has been since before Gi Gi bought the place. Everyone in town knows it. Light in there flickers for no reason, even when the place is empty. It’s got bad energy. Real bad.”
Harriet let out a low, knowing hum.
Denny gestured toward her with a slight shudder. “If she’s gonna wave that stick of hers around, that’s where she oughta start. Just keep me off that detail, and we’ll get along fine.”
Marcus paused, pen midair.
Of course it was that room.
The one directly across from Frankie’s. Which meant he was now picturing her room instead. The one he’d made sure was finished yesterday. The one whose doorway he’d lingered outside last night, only steps from her bed, fighting the urge to go back in and finish what they’d started.
Had it been a ghost that killed the mood with a whispered reminder of her Mr. Uptight musings over dinner, or just his own damn conscience?
He cleared his throat. “Noted. I’ll assign that room to someone with a higher ghost tolerance.”
Harriet nodded solemnly. “I’ll investigate first. If my copper starts humming, I’ll flag it for containment.”
Containment?
Marcus opened his mouth to ask for clarification, then wisely chose peace and kept it shut.
“Starting tomorrow morning,” he said, “we’ll begin the workday at seven.
I wanted to give my temporary houseguest a little time to settle in before you all start destroying her beauty sleep.
” Hopefully, the cottage would be rewired and Frankie would move back within the next few days.
He’d assigned three guys to work on it today.
The double doors creaked open, and George stepped in, cap pulled low, yellow raincoat misted with rain. An angry scratch angled down his cheek. He offered a quiet smile and a respectful nod.
“Dropped Miss Frankie at the bookstore,” he said in his usual soft, earnest tone. “She looked…nice this morning. Smelled good, too.”
“Is that mark on your cheek from her?” someone from the back called. “You try to get fresh?”
George’s ears went pink. “No. Of course, not. I’m fostering a cat until we can place it in a home.” He grunted. “Mean little thing. But we’re working on it.”
Laughter rippled through the room, and Marcus let it wash past him. His mind was still on Frankie, on their texting earlier. She’d ended it without a goodbye. She was still pissed he hadn’t stayed past foreplay. Not that he could blame her.
He sipped his coffee, letting the heat burn his tongue. She’d been wrecked in the best way. Rumpled sheets. Sleepy eyes. A flush lingering on her skin. And then she’d asked him to stay.
And he’d told her to get some rest. Like an absolute coward.
More laughter broke out at whatever George had just added. Something about carrying her from the truck to the door so her shoes wouldn’t get wet.
Marcus’s mouth twitched. “She say anything else?”
George’s ears went pinker. “Only that if her pants got wet, there’d be lawsuits. And she asked for coffee like she was royalty.”
“And did you do as I suggested?” Marcus asked, still trying to nudge George toward a little assertiveness.
George shook his head. “I got it for her.”
The room roared again, and George ducked his head, modest but pleased.
Marcus sighed. Of course she’d found a way to charm him. She could charm a monk. Hell, she could charm a man who knew better.
Marcus cleared his throat. “Let’s get to work. This place has waited long enough to come back to life.”
The crews peeled off, scattering across the manor with ladders and toolboxes, a few throwing sidelong glances at the allegedly haunted stairwell.
But Marcus lingered.
His gaze drifted up toward the second floor. The same floor where she’d slept last night. The same floor he’d walked away from after making her come with nothing more than his mouth and the stupid, reckless devotion he didn’t know how to turn off.
He hadn’t left to be smart. Or to keep things clean. He’d left because while watching her fall apart beneath him, he remembered what she’d said over dinner.
“Maybe Mr. Uptight’s got some unresolved childhood scar that’s got him interfering in other people’s lives like it’s a damn moral mission.”
It had hit a nerve then. Remembering it while she was coming undone beneath him? That didn’t just gut him. It branded him.
Because she’d trusted him. And he was the asshole she thought she’d escaped.
He couldn’t keep going last night. Not when every second it felt like stealing.
Now the thought sat heavily in his chest.
The hammering started. Tools buzzed. Voices carried from room to room. And still, all he could hear was her breathless whisper in his ear, the taste of champagne and defiance lingering on his tongue.
Either way, he was going to lose her.
The only question was whether he’d do it like a coward…or like a man willing to burn for her, even if it meant burning alone.