Chapter 18
Valerie
The hum of the microfilm reader filled the tiny basement of the Silverpine Library. I’d been there for hours, the screen washing my face in pale blue light as I whirled through headlines from the nineteen-eighties.
The scent of dust and pine polish tickled my nose, and my fingers were cramped, my shoulders aching from sitting too long in the same position. It was a far cry from the warmth I’d woken up to this morning.
Heat crept up my spine as the memory slipped in uninvited—Grant’s arm slung heavy across my waist, his breath steady against the back of my neck, the faint spice of his cologne tangled with sleep-warm skin. The flashback hit like static.
I’d broken my own rule and was halfway to breaking another: enjoying his company.
Enough that a small, traitorous part of me hoped the ghost had commandeered my room permanently.
Not that I’d ever tell Grant that. Or that I liked his breakfasts.
Or the way he’d checked my room for the phantom yeti.
Or that I'd slept—ridiculously, completely safe—with his heartbeat a breath away.
He was infuriatingly good at small gestures.
The steady ones. The kind that made my chest ache and my imagination misbehave.
Though he’d probably ruin it tonight when I unwrapped a sports magazine and a pack of gas station lighters.
I bet he’d spring for one of those extra-long fireplace ones, and call it a seasonal upgrade.
I rubbed my temple and leaned closer to the screen. What I needed to do was focus on old newsprint, not on how my accidental husband looked without his shirt. Because damn… at this rate, I might as well toss the whole case and spend the rest of the year staring into space.
I shook my head, blinking at the blur of headlines. Ghosts first. Finding out the name of Grant's gym so I could lurk by the treadmills later.
The thought earned a half-laugh. He probably already had an entourage taking full advantage of the gym's bring-a-friend policy. I'd be just another ponytail in the background, pretending I knew how to work the machines.
I blew out a breath. I was officially the only woman to get hot and bothered beside a microfilm machine in a dusty basement.
Another hour dragged by, the steady hum my own personal soundtrack to bad decisions.
My coffee was cold. My stomach growled. And yet nothing explained why the hauntings at the inn had spiked so suddenly.
There had to be a reason. If I could figure that out, I could work backward, thread by thread, until I discovered the man behind our mysterious ghost.
The reel clicked, and a new headline slid into view.
“Annual Silverpine Lake Winter Spectacular Moves to Frosthaven Arena.”
I frowned. The skating show had been a Silverpine tradition for decades. I’d seen a few stories when I’d scrolled through earlier years. The troupe came into town every December 1st and stayed through Christmas Eve.
Scrolling further, I caught a grainy photo that stopped me cold.
A smiling woman in a long white coat stood in front of the Silverpine Inn, a cluster of young figure skaters bundled at her side.
They were all beaming, mid-laugh, snowflakes caught in their hair.
The woman was holding something small between her gloved fingers.
I zoomed in on the photo and squinted. I could just barely make it out. The woman had a brass key with a charm plate engraved with Room Eleven.
My room.
A little shiver crawled up my spine. Was it a coincidence?
The caption read: “Coach Natalie Gray and her students, December 23.”
“Come on, Natalie,” I whispered as I scrolled through more headlines. “What happened to you?”
But there was nothing else.
I grabbed my phone and typed her name alongside the skating arena. A few old interviews came up, but nothing tied to the Silverpine Inn. Her obituary said she’d died a few years ago, unmarried.
The screen dimmed as I leaned back. This had to be it. The ghost hadn’t wanted me in that room because it wasn’t just a room—it was hers. If Natalie had been the last to stay there before the inn shut its doors each December, then maybe he’s been guarding it all this time.
Keeping it empty.
Keeping it hers.
But that still didn’t answer the question of his identity. He wasn’t family or her husband. How was I going to find the connection?
I hated to admit it, but Grant might be able to help.
He had an aggravating knack for spotting patterns and solving problems. For years, he’d been making lemonade out of every lemon I threw at him.
Waylaid trip to the North Pole? He’d turned it into a polar bear fundraiser.
The July Fourth firework HR debacle? I still blamed him, but he spun it into a fire-safety awareness campaign. He probably saved lives.
He could help here, too.
I printed out the articles and checked the time. There were only a few hours left before sunset, and I still had to shop for his gift. I might’ve been a little too confident this morning. Not about being an amazing gift-giver, but about performing that kind of magic without overnight shipping.
It had to be thoughtful and pure Grant. Something that says, I see you, and stabs him right in the heart center—figuratively. I wanted him to melt with gratitude at my feet, not haunt me until the end of my days. Though he was doing a bang-up job of that fully living.
All of that for twenty bucks. I had my work cut out for me, and not much time to do it.
The first few shops were duds. Time marched along with the sun as I wandered the cobblestone streets, passing windows strung with tinsel and half-off holiday signs that mocked my budget.
I fueled up with a caramel mocha and briefly considered buying a holiday cookie basket wrapped in cellophane.
Sure, the gift would’ve technically been for him, but I would’ve eaten it.
Probably in the middle of the night, sneaking a snack like a festive raccoon.
In the end, I moved on to a little gift shop with vinyl snowflakes clinging to the display window.
A blast of warm air greeted me, and I knew instantly this was my place.
Quirky trinkets lined the shelves: shot glasses with funny sayings, mini potted cacti decorated with ornaments, and offbeat keychains with boys’ and girls’ names printed in block lettering.
Twenty dollars would serve me well here.
I scanned the rack for Grant’s name, frowning when it wasn’t there. Plenty of Davids and Johns, but no Grant. No Valerie either, which clearly meant the manufacturer lacked taste.
I was down to my last sip of caramel mocha, feeling a little defeated, when I saw it—the perfect gift.
A rack of ties spun slowly beneath my hand, the clearance sign above doing its best to justify the questionable decision.
It was easy to see why. These weren’t business ties; they were fun.
Santas and reindeer in hot tubs. A snowman smoking a cigar—which, why?
But I didn’t judge. And the holiday star on this A-frame rack of ties that should never see a boardroom was a navy-blue gem covered in tiny flamingos wearing Santa hats.
It reminded me of the luau when he’d shown up outside my hut wearing an austere business suit, sweltering in the humid night air. I mean, he looked devastating in it, no denying that, but it didn’t agree with his reckless charm.
The swagger.
Grant wasn’t a three-piece-suit, stuffy office drone.
His devilish attitude used to drive me to distraction, but after he took over Snowbelt, it was like all that effervescent charm got buried in a snowbank, smothered by long hours, endless meetings, and the constant hawk-eyed stare of his grandfather.
He was a man dimmed by stringent expectations, and this tie, well… it felt like a little rebellion.
I stuffed the receipt into my jacket pocket, pleased that the clearance squeaked me in just under the twenty-dollar limit. I grabbed a roll of silver wrapping paper and a bright red bow, then headed back to the inn.
Grant’s car wasn’t in the drive. He was probably still out buying me a travel-size lint roller or reindeer-shaped air fresheners. What would that even smell like? I shuddered to find out.
I lingered in the car, heat blasting from the vents, reluctant to go back inside alone. Funny how I’d planned to handle this whole case solo, and now I was procrastinating behind the steering wheel, waiting for Grant to appear and make everything less scary.
Relying on him wasn’t smart. If all went according to plan, we’d be legally separated via magical key by the end of the week.
Would he still get to keep my tie? I had no idea how time loops like that worked.
I might not even remember any of this. I could wake up alone in my apartment with no clue that he made amazing coffee, or that he didn’t kick away someone’s freezing feet beneath the blanket.
My last boyfriend wouldn’t let me touch him. He called me Titanic toes. Said he was avoiding the icebergs. He wasn’t very nice.
I dropped my head against the steering wheel with a groan, then jolted when the horn blared.
Classic. Better to just go inside and face the ghost before my trip down ex-memory lane turned into a full autopsy of all my mismatched relationships.
For a meet-cute maker who taught a seminar, I really needed to read my own material.
The lobby was quiet. I flicked on every light in every room I passed and considered taking my spoils up to Grant’s room.
Now that I suspected the ghost was guarding Natalie’s, that one was off limits.
But instead, I found myself standing in front of the banquet room doors again.
The housekeeper must’ve left them open after finishing her shift.
I’d swept up most of the debris and propped the fallen frame against the wall, leaving a note that it needed a good vacuuming to catch whatever splinters I’d missed.