Chapter 16
Grant
The clock on the nightstand read just past two. Muted moonlight slipped between the curtains, silvering the room in uneven bars of light. But it wasn’t the light that woke me. Something rustled faintly against the floorboards in the hall.
I frowned, sitting up, rubbing a hand over my bleary eyes. The sound came again, closer this time. A quiet exhale. The soft thwack of feathers. Then, the saddest sound, a muffled sniffle.
I was on my feet, a spike of urgency clamoring inside my throat as I crossed the room in three long strides. When I opened the door, the sconce in the hallway flared brighter, pushing back the shadows as if it were trying to help.
And there she was.
Valerie lay curled in on herself beside my door, a pillow tucked behind her head, knees drawn tight as if warding off the cold. Her hair was a riot of brown silk, spilling over her shoulders and pooling onto the floor.
Snowflakes dotted the thin cotton of her nightshirt, the hem riding high, and she had what looked like tiny sweaters wrapped around her ankles. For one reckless second, I wanted to touch the smooth curve of her shoulder, to spread warmth back into her.
Then I caught the faint red mark along her cheek. The one from the painting.
I'd followed her to the inn to keep her safe, telling myself I was her boss, and whatever history we shared was fine to erase. Just the universe correcting itself. But it hadn't been professional instinct that pulled her back. It was the kind that whispered my wife, even when it shouldn't.
Somewhere between the day she’d slapped that case file on my desk and this morning—watching her make lazy figure-eights in her syrup—I realized whatever had shifted between us hadn't stopped. It had been melting through me ever since. The polar caps giving way, slow and inevitable.
I used to think it had started at the luau, but it was long before that.
If I'd dug deep enough, I'd have found the volcano that had never really cooled.
The one reserved for the woman who challenged me at every turn and made me wonder, for the first time, what forever might feel like in a bar outside the airport, before I opened my big mouth and we both learned the universe had other plans.
How long had she been lying here? I hadn’t heard a sound. But Silverpine had its tricks, warping air, swallowing noise until you couldn’t tell if what you heard was real or something the house wanted you to believe.
I crouched beside her, careful not to startle her. Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks, and she murmured something incoherent into the pillow.
“Spells?”
Her eyes blinked open, slow and unfocused, until they found me.
“Grant?”
“Want to tell me why you’re camping outside my door like a lost elf?”
“The ghost stole my room,” she said simply as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Then why aren’t you in mine?
The thought slammed into me before reason could intervene. Because apparently, having her with me had started to feel more natural than anything in my life.
“Come on,” I said, pushing the door open wider. “You’re freezing.”
“I’m fine.”
“Your lips are blue.”
“Winter aesthetic.”
I bit back a smile. “I will carry you in here.”
Her eyes went wide, then slowly softened in that wary, Are you serious? kind of way.
“You’re not wearing a shirt.”
“Oh, the horror! I belong in this haunted house.”
Her gaze dragged down my chest, and my amusement buried itself under the rubble of that look.
“Your abs are terrifying,” she murmured, looking up through her lashes. “What do you do, lift goblins during spooky season?”
I swallowed the urge to laugh, my fingers flexing with the need to touch her. And if I didn't get my hands under control, I was going to find out how soft her skin felt under my palms.
“Where do you come up with these things?”
She lifted a shoulder, the sleeve of her nightshirt slipping lower, exposing the bare curve of her skin. “My mind’s a very weird place.”
“I don’t hate it,” I rasped.
Her eyes flicked up to meet mine, her lips curving slightly. “I don’t hate everything about you either. You make good bacon.”
I huffed a laugh, mostly to cover the fact that my sanity had gone rogue, and I'd just discovered the eighth wonder of the world was bacon.
She pushed to her feet, crushing the pillow to her chest as she stepped cautiously inside.
“It's ghost-free. I swear,” I said, snapping on the light. The muted glow illuminated the edges of the room. Closing the door, I watched as she wandered like a restless cat, fingers trailing over the dresser, the neatly folded stack of shirts, and the half-unzipped duffel.
I crossed my arms. “What exactly are you doing?”
“Investigating,” she said, tossing back the same line I'd used on her the other day. She picked up my shaving kit and sniffed the cologne bottle before setting it down again. “You might be in league with the spirit. The hauntings only seem to be happening to me.”
“I saved you from that painting.”
“Because you were following me.”
“Strategically shadowing.”
Her smirk tugged at something deep in my chest before she turned away, moving toward the window.
“You saw him?” I asked.
She nodded, jumping when the floor creaked as I stepped behind her.
“Zero out of ten. Would not recommend. He’s huge—like a yeti in an overcoat. And there’s a swirl of snow around him when he moves.”
“Didn't you see his face? Any discernible features we can use to identify him?”
“I don’t know, Detective Does Nothing But Judge.
I was too busy being chased.” She thrust her arm toward the door.
“You’re welcome to go next door and conduct an interview.
Maybe do a composite sketch. But I'm not going back in there.” She folded her arms, glancing at the rumpled sheets.
“I guess I’m sleeping here. There’s only one bed. ”
“I noticed.”
“I can take the floor.” She scuffed her bare foot over the wood. “It’s a step up from the hall.”
“I would never let my wif—” I caught the word halfway out, heat flashing up my neck.
Her brow arched. “Your what?”
“My… guest. Sleep on the floor. I’ll take it.”
“Smooth save, Delaney.” She grabbed her pillow, tossed it to the far side of the mattress, and slid beneath the quilt.
“It’s a king bed. Which means there’s room for little old me and your giant ego.
But here are the rules: stay on your side, if the ghost shows up, you take the hit so I can run, and if you snore—”
“I don’t snore.”
“Doubtful.”
Her tone was light, but her eyes tracked me as I moved closer. I lifted the edge of the quilt and slid under, careful to leave a stretch of cool sheets between us.
“Goodnight, Spells,” I murmured.
A quiet sigh. “Can we keep the light on?”
“Yeah,” I said, voice low. “All night.”
Her breathing evened out faster than I expected. Either she was exhausted or listing rules was her version of counting sheep. The silence settled heavy, and the faint scent of her hair—vanilla and something floral—hung in the air. I stared at the ceiling, every nerve tuned to the space between us.
I told myself to sleep. To remember why I came here, and not fool myself into thinking we'd walk away from this case together.
We'd been enemies, rivals, whatever label fit that week—it didn't matter. I hadn't been Prince Charming. Hell, I hadn't even been decent most days. But lying here beside her made me wish I had been.
Maybe I really was the grumpy division leader starring in his one-man Christmas Carol. And the ghost next door was meant to show me what had been in front of me all along.