Chapter 14
Valerie
“You’re the ghost?” I hissed.
Grant leaned in the doorway, all six feet of overbearing charm, a mug in one hand and a slanted grin that made my still-racing heart trip like it got tangled in a string of lights.
“Am I?” His expression morphed into mock horror. “Is this one of those sneaky, don’t-spoil-the-ending movies?“ He leaned in, elbow still braced against the casing. “Have I been dead the whole time?”
I shoved him in the chest. “You're a menace.”
Laughter broke through his act as he lifted his mug to keep it from spilling.
“Careful, this is my favorite sweater. If I’m wearing it in the afterlife, I don’t want coffee stains.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Investigating.” His eyes did a slow, lazy sweep of my candy-cane nightshirt before returning to my face. “Festive, Spells.”
I yanked the hem lower, cheeks blazing. “No. This is my case. You’re the boss. You’re not even—”
The rest of my words caught in my throat. He knew. My stomach twisted, a hollow ache spreading through me as reality sank in. He hadn't come for me. He was here for the key.
I was here for the same thing, so why did that sting so much? Because it meant he didn't trust me to handle this case, and it confirmed he wanted out, too. So much that he'd dropped everything, booked a last-minute stay in a haunted house, and traded holiday parties for nightmares.
I crossed my arms, willing my voice steady. “You don’t believe I can win the key, do you?”
An unreadable look flickered across his face. “This case should’ve been locked up. There never should’ve been a key.”
“But there is.” My voice sharpened. “What, too much paperwork if I get hurt? You thought you’d babysit the sad Sunbelter?” I held up my hand. “I know what it is. You just want the credit for ending our marriage first.”
“Marriage?” He stepped closer, lowering his voice until it scraped dangerously low. “Is that what we’ve been doing? Could’ve fooled me.”
Heat sparked between us, crackling like static. That familiar pull roared to life; the one I hadn’t felt in a year. The rush hit hard, like surfacing after holding my breath too long.
And that was the problem. The key would snuff that spark out for good, and maybe that was for the best. Because whatever this was, it felt like something that could slip past my defenses if I wasn't careful.
“Stay out of my way, Delaney. HR made us partners on that island, but not here.”
“I don’t think we’ve ever been partners.” His eyes found mine and held. “What would that even feel like?”
I drew in a breath that burned all the way down. We weren’t going to find out.
A thud echoed down the shadowed hall, followed by a faint rustle like dry leaves scraping across wood. I gripped the candelabra, my knuckles throbbing. Another draft swept through, snuffing out the candles in my hand. I flinched hard.
The only light came from his doorway. My feet inside my fuzzy slippers begged me to launch straight into his arms. Grant noticed. Amusement replaced the intensity in his eyes.
“Scared? You can stay in my room.”
“I don’t get scared,” I said tightly. “And I’d rather take a dip in the frozen lake.”
“Right. Too bad it’s too cold for jellyfish. You could kill two birds with one swim.”
We stood inches apart. His hand rose between us, close enough that warmth pooled along my skin. Then his fingers swept over the candlewicks, and the flames flared to life.
“If you change your mind, Room 12 has better lighting.”
“Enjoy your lighting.” I turned on my heel, candles wavering. “And your terrifying ego. I’m sure you and the ghost have a lot in common.”
“Night, Mrs. Delaney.”
I stopped short, my married name sinking under my skin before I could shrug it off. It didn’t mean anything. It was just Grant getting the last word in the most underhanded way possible. But for a heartbeat, it sounded like a promise instead of a punchline.
I walked faster and closed the door to Room 11.
***
Sunlight stabbed through the lace curtains like razor-tipped darts.
Bullseye.
Even the sun knew how little I’d slept.
I groaned, dragging the quilt over my head until my brain stopped replaying Night, Mrs. Delaney on an endless loop. I was officially haunted, and I hadn’t even seen the ghost.
Even more haunting, the image of Grant in that soft knit sweater, day-old scruff shadowing his jaw, and that molten gaze skimming the hem of my nightshirt. The way he'd looked at me might've been the scariest thing I’d ever seen—and I should run before I tried to get him to do it again.
Ugh, had he practiced that seductive tone in the mirror? Well done, Mr. Delaney. You’ve perfected your witchcraft.
I shoved myself upright, my hair tangled, sleepshirt twisted around my thighs. “New day. New ghost. No Grant,” I muttered to the empty room.
My slippers shushed over the carpet as I headed downstairs, following the smell of coffee.
The lobby looked different in daylight, more like the quaint bed-and-breakfast from the photos in the brochure.
Sunlight glittered over the marble fireplace, catching on the pinecones woven into thick garlands that draped the mantel.
I padded into the kitchen, already peeling off a layer from the warmth.
Grant stood at the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a red-and-green plaid apron tied around his waist. He moved easily, shoulders relaxed, looking like every woman's domestic fantasy. No one should have forearms like that, and they definitely didn't belong in the kitchen. A rock quarry, maybe.
Was it possible to be attracted to breakfast competence? Asking for myself.
Grease sizzled in the pan, and my stomach growled, louder than my pride, as I eyed the growing pile of bacon.
Without a word, he poured coffee into a chipped mug that read #1 Miracle Worker. This Witch Has Skillz. The same mug I’d left in the drying rack the night before, and slid it toward me.
His fingers brushed mine when I reached for the handle. Static zinged up my arm. What new witchcraft is this? He might not have said anything, but my starving brain filled in the silence with that rich sound of his voice, switching from Night to Morning, Mrs. Delaney.
“You cook?” I cleared the tightness from my throat, then gulped my coffee. My eyes fluttered shut around the first sip.
“Don’t you?” He flipped a pancake with ridiculous precision, catching it on the spatula like some kind of breakfast magician.
“I microwave,” I hedged, taking another sip of what was clearly the greatest coffee ever brewed—was that cinnamon? I schooled my features. “But I didn't picture this for you. I always figured you were more of a pour-milk-over-marshmallow-cereal kind of guy.”
He drank from his own mug, leaning a hip against the counter. “I love those marshmallows. I pick them all out, then I’m bummed when all that’s left are the flakes.”
I snorted. “I throw out the flakes.”
“Wasteful, Spells.” He tsked and set a plate of bacon and pancakes in front of me.
The smell was indecent—butter, sugar, temptation.
There was no way this was real. We’d gone from enemies, to the silent treatment, to domestic bliss, and I needed off this ride before I found out where it ended.
Because right now, I was about to sell my soul for lifetime tickets.
“This doesn’t change anything,” I warned, pouring syrup.
“It shouldn’t. I gave you the burnt bacon.”
“Joke’s on you. I like it extra crispy.”
“Noted.” His grin was pure sin as he bit into a strip of bacon as if he’d just made some kind of vow.
The man was possessed—literally.
We ate in silence. I kept glancing over, watching him clean his plate, nearly forgetting that two’s company and three’s a crowd until a cupboard door slammed behind me. I nearly wore my coffee.
Grant just arched an eyebrow, unfazed. “I don’t think we’re alone.”
“How are you not bothered by that?”
He shrugged. “There's only room for one scaredy-cat in this relationship. Someone has to be the strong, devastatingly handsome protector of innocents in candy-cane sleepwear.”
I pointed my fork at him, the tines warding away his battle-smirk. “We are not in a relationship.”
“Ah—” He braced one hand on the counter beside me, his forearms mocking my puny utensil. “But you do think I'm handsome.”
“I think you're disturbed.”
The salt shaker rattled, tipped, and spilled directly into my syrup.
I scowled. “Oh, come on.”
“I think the ghost likes me better,” Grant said, licking syrup off his thumb. “You should leave. Let me handle this one.”
“Not a chance.” I smiled sweetly, sliding off the stool. “Thanks for breakfast. I hope you and the ghost live happily ever after—inside the walls.”
Mug in hand, I waved over my shoulder and went in search of the housekeeper.