5. Freddie
Freddie
This is not good.
When I pounded on Delphi’s bedroom door five minutes ago to whisper that there was a lost stranger down in the foyer looking for a room, I thought her eyes were literally going to bulge straight out of her head and roll across the hardwood.
Because strangers don’t just show up in Amberhollow. Ever.
You couldn’t find this town on a GPS if you bribed Google with a billion dollars (not that Google needs a billion more dollars, but I digress).
The ancient boundary glamour—the thick, invisible weave of magic settled over the ridge lines called the Weaver’s Knot—keeps us completely tucked away from the outside world.
The only way anyone ever steps foot across that bridge is if the town itself decides to part its mist and let you through.
In all twenty-nine years of my life, Amberhollow has never let an outsider in. Not once. And judging by the protruding vein throbbing in Delphi’s temple, she hasn’t seen it happen in her sixty-two years, either.
When I’d asked if he could stay the night, Delphi had nearly lost her mind.
“A stranger?” she’d hissed, clutching her robe to her throat. “Winifred, we run a respectable bed and breakfast for people who belong here, not a halfway house for rogue mountain men! He could be an axe murderer!”
I’d tried to reason with her, telling her he seemed nice—if you ignored the brooding intensity.
But Delphi had just glared at me like I was batshit crazy.
“Anybody can seem nice for five minutes! Ted Bundy seemed nice! That doesn’t mean you have the slightest clue what their motives are!
Did you leave your brain on the side of the road with his car? ”
She wasn’t entirely wrong, but I also couldn’t deny how my magic felt. There was something…different about him.
The moment I’d spotted him standing by his broken-down truck near the old bridge, my magic had sparked under my skin like a lit match.
It wasn’t just that he was undoubtedly one of the most ridiculously attractive men I’d ever laid eyes on—though the broad shoulders, auburn hair, and low, gravelly Scottish accent certainly weren’t hurting his case.
It was how the air around him felt. My magic didn’t recoil from him; it leaned toward him like a sunflower reaching for light.
It felt like a magnet. An irresistible pull drawing me right into his orbit, and I didn’t really know what to do with that information.
But I knew one thing for sure: finding him tonight wasn’t a coincidence.
The town had opened its doors for Callum McKinley, and my magic was rolled out like a red carpet.
I’d tried to tell Delphi to take a breath and cool down a notch, but once a Rowley woman gets a bee in her bonnet, you might as well try to stop a rockslide with a flyswatter. Stubbornness isn’t just a family trait for us; it’s practically a genetic defect.
So now, I’m standing two steps behind her on the staircase, wincing in advance as Delphi plants her feet on the bottom runner, crosses her arms tight over her robe, and fixes on the mountain of a man in our foyer with a glare.
I have to bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from snickering out loud.
Callum McKinley is well over six feet of broad shoulders and solid muscle but right now, he looks genuinely rattled by a tiny woman in fuzzy pink slippers.
He stands stiffly beside the coat rack, his wet duffel bags sitting on the floorboards by his boots, completely unsure of where to put his hands. He settles on dragging a hand down over his thick mustache and strong jaw, his eyebrows pulling together in sheer, honest-to-God confusion.
“Ma’am, I promise you I wasn’t trying to intrude,” Callum says.
His Scottish-Appalachian accent thickens just a bit under pressure.
“I got turned around on the highway. I’m from eastern Kentucky—was heading out toward Colorado for a cabin rental.
My truck broke down near the bridge, and Freddie was kind enough to offer a ride.
I’ll be out of your hair first thing in the morning. ”
Delphi doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she starts slowly circling him like a vulture taking in the meat on a stray rabbit.
Her slippers make a faint shhh-shhh noise against the rug as her brown eyes flick up and down his frame—taking in his wet coat, his scuffed boots, and the impermeable way he holds himself.
Callum’s stormy blue eyes dart over to me, wide and silently pleading. I give him a helpless little shrug, squeezing my lips together so tight they ache to keep the laugh in.
Delphi stops right in front of him, planting her fists on her hips. “Do you know where you are?”
Callum blinks, his jaw shifting as he mentally calculates his route. “Somewhere near…the Kansas-Colorado border, if I had to guess? Give or take fifty miles?”
Delphi’s gaze snaps back to me. I shoot her an I told you so look—a quick tilt of my chin that says the poor guy is completely lost. Basically an abandoned puppy.
She sighs, the tension in her body loosening a little as she senses his unvarnished confusion. “You’re not near Kansas, dear.”
“I’m…not?” Callum asks, pulling a hand out of his pocket to rub the back of his neck.
“No.” Delphi crosses her arms over her chest again, taking him in with a measuring look.
“Consider yourself lucky. I’m down to my last two rooms, but you can stay.
My niece seems to think you’re not a bad man.
” She pauses, casting a pointed glance in my direction before looking back at Callum.
“I’ll have to see about that for myself tomorrow. ”
Relief washes over his face, softening the tired lines around his pretty eyes.
“Thank you. Truly. But…where am I then, exactly? If I know where I am—if I’m in the wrong county, or if you need the rooms for someone else, it’d be faster for me to just leave first thing…
” He stutters slightly, catching himself, a man who clearly hates feeling like he’s taking up space he didn’t earn.
And also still a little unsure and terrified of the woman standing in front of him.
Smart man. It’s always wise to be a little terrified of Delphi.
Delphi steps closer, tapping a worn fingernail right into his chest. “Let’s just say you’re definitely a hell of a long way from Kansas, Callum McKinley. But sleep first. We’ll worry about directions tomorrow.”
Callum just stares at her, his mouth opening slightly like he wants to ask if she’s hallucinating, but he wisely shuts it.
“Now,” Delphi says briskly, turning on her heel with all the dramatic flair of a stage actress finishing her final act. “I am going back to bed before my joints remember how damp it is out there. Winifred will show you to Room Four.”
Callum hoists his wet duffel bag over his shoulder, grabbing his smaller leather kit in the other hand. I wave a hand toward the staircase. “Let’s go, cowboy.”
He falls into step behind me, his heavy boots making the worn oak floorboards creak. “You could’ve given me a heads-up that the owner was your aunt,” he mutters under his breath.
I shrug over my shoulder, keeping my pace slow. “Didn’t seem relevant. Besides, I think what you meant to say was, ’Thank you so much, Freddie, for saving my ass and getting me a spare room in my pain-in-the-ass aunt’s inn.’”
Callum lets out a gravelly huff that sounds suspiciously like a smothered laugh. “Thank you.”
I tilt my chin up, shooting him a smug grin over my shoulder. “You’re very welcome.”
I lead him down the wide, dimly lit hallway on the second floor, past the framed tintype photos of Rowley ancestors looking stern enough to curdle milk. Room Four is at the very end of the hall. I push the heavy brass handle down and swing the door open.
Callum stops in the doorway, his broad frame taking up almost the whole frame as his eyes sweep the space.
It’s easily one of the best rooms in the inn.
The ceilings are high, exposed dark wood beams crisscrossing over a massive king-sized bed piled high with handmade quilts and plush linen pillows.
On the left wall, a heavy oak door sits slightly ajar, revealing a tiled master bath with a clawfoot tub big enough to swim in.
On the right wall is another door—currently locked—that connects to Room Five.
Usually, big families or loud wedding parties rent the two together so kids can bounce back and forth between the rooms, but tonight, the whole east wing is dead quiet.
Well, as quiet as it can be with the storm raging outside. A fire is already crackling away in the stone fireplace, throwing light across the rug, and a few vanilla-scented candles burn on the mantel.
Outside, the rain pummels the windowpanes and a crack of thunder rattles the glass in its frame, followed by a flash of lightning that illuminates the dark pines swaying out in the yard.
The storm is scary as shit, but I can’t help the spark of awe that hits me right in the chest. I love this kind of weather.
I hate the cold that comes with it, but I love the noise, the raw energy, the way the sky feels like it’s throwing a massive temper tantrum.
I wander over to the big bay window, leaning my hip against the sill to watch the water sheets wash down the glass.
Callum sets his bags down by the bench at the foot of the bed. He looks up, catching me by the glass just as another flash of white light paints the trees. “You probably shouldn’t be standing right next to the window when there’s lightning outside.”
I roll my eyes fondly, turning around to gesture broadly at the room with both hands. “Safety hazard aside—is this okay?”
Callum nods, his eyes lingering on the heavy wooden mantle, the thick rug, the sheer warmth of the space after being soaked to the bone.
“It’s…more than okay. It’s really nice. Thank you, again.
” He glances toward the fireplace, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Am I able to put that out before I go to sleep? Fire safety and all.”