Chapter 19
Valerie
The sun had dipped low enough to stain the snowy landscape amber when I heard Grant’s car crunch over the drive.
Suddenly, my palms were sweating. I shook out my hands and paced in front of the parlor hearth like a woman bracing for the unknown.
This wasn't a date.
It wasn't.
But the fire crackled. The Christmas tree glittered. And the air smelled like the pine candles I'd lit as if I were prepping for a client's magical meet-cute. One candle was cozy. Ten strategically placed ivory pillars at varying heights that was mood lighting.
And that felt like a date.
The front door swung open, a gust of cold air curling through the lobby before he stepped inside. Grant had a scarf wrapped high around his cheeks, his hair dusted with snowflakes he shook off as he stamped his boots on the mat.
“Hey,” he said, spotting me through the archway.
Was it weird that I’d changed since this morning?
Not that I’d packed a cocktail gown for a haunted getaway, but I had a cute sweater dress, the fine knit threaded with silver that caught the firelight.
Black heels gave me a few extra inches and made my calves look like I actually knew what the term leg day meant.
I even spent a few extra minutes on my hair. Okay, fine. Thirty minutes. A few for the curling wand to warm up, the rest turning my waist-length hair into gleaming, silken waves.
I smoothed my palms down my dress, pretending I wasn’t silently willing him to notice.
He paused mid-boot stamp. His eyes skimmed from my heels to my knees—hesitated just long enough to make the air thin in my chest—then traveled up to my face.
Oh… he noticed.
His mouth curved. “You dressed up for me, Spells?”
I crossed my arms, determined not to melt faster than the snow on his shoulders. “Just wanted to look my best while you wash the dishes after my holiday gift victory.”
He tugged the scarf loose, revealing more of that crooked, lethal smile. “Or maybe I’ll be the one watching you rinse glasses in heels.”
The way he said it made me think I was standing too close to the fire, flames licking up my back. But I was still in the archway with the draft of blustery air.
“I guess we’ll see.” I lifted the silver box containing his present. The bow and the mistletoe looked almost professional. “Don’t be ashamed if all you could manage was newspaper wrapping.”
He hung his jacket on the hook and pulled gently at the knit of his sweater, loosening the fabric molded over his chest.
Holy Menswear Catalogs. Who knew cable knit could hot-wire my brain?
“Newspaper is timeless,” he said. “And recyclable. Some would be impressed with my commitment to saving the planet.”
“What’s next, the whales?”
“They just need the right theme song. That animal-adoption commercial gets me every time.”
I blinked. My heart did a weird little stutter. The animal-adoption commercial? There was no way Grant Delaney had accidentally wandered onto the last item on my soulmate list.
But he had.
“Yeah. Me too. I like cats... a lot.” My eyes crossed, but somehow, I kept going. “Black ones. Or tabbies. You know, if they have those.”
Stop. Talking. About. Cats.
Grant’s lips twitched. “Good to know you have a type.”
“Yeah. Cats are loyal, mostly.” I twisted the end of my hair around my finger, my mind unraveling faster than a ball of yarn. “They also bring you gifts sometimes. Dead ones, sure, but… it’s the thought that counts.”
Oh, jeeze. Just kill me now, and I’ll move in with my new spirit friend.
“Do you like cats?” I asked weakly.
I’ve died.
He laughed then—really laughed—and the sound was unfairly good. Deep, unguarded, the kind that made me forget I was rambling uncontrollably about felines.
“Come on,” he said, still smiling. “I want to see what that mind of yours bought me for Christmas.”
He dropped onto the couch beside the hearth, and I set the silver box in his hands before I could overthink it.
“You’re laughing now,” I warned, “but prepare to be emotionally moved. I should have brought tissues.”
“That so?” He brushed his thumb along the edge of the bow, eyes flicking up to mine. “The mistletoe’s a nice touch. You wrapped this?”
“I aim to win.”
The corner of his mouth lifted again. He tore the paper with exaggerated slowness as if this was the only present he’d get all year and he wanted to savor every second.
When he lifted the lid, he went still. He stared at it for so long my nerves did a somersault, and I wondered if I’d forgotten to add the tie. Was he staring into any empty box? I leaned forward, nope, tiny flamingos in Santa hats marched proudly across an ink blue necktie.
“Um… I still have the receipt,” I said, reaching for the box. “You’re a division leader now. I just thought—”
He dodged my hand and pulled out the tie, silently running his fingers along the fabric.
“The thing is,” I rushed on, “I think your suits are so… somber.”
“Funerals,” he muttered, almost to himself.
“Exactly. You wear all that gray and navy like armor. But that tie reminds me of you,” I said. “Well, the you beneath the suit.”
His head lifted. The firelight caught his eyes, turning them gold.
“I love it, Spells.”
The words landed low and rough, like he meant more than the tie. Neither of us spoke. The only sound was the quiet pop of the fire. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to win anymore. I just wanted to linger in that look. Like I’d handed him a miracle and not a polyester blend with a tropical print.
He set the tie carefully on the arm of the couch, smoothing the fabric once more with his thumb. Then he reached for the box beside him.
“Guess it’s my turn.”
It was the size of a shoebox, wrapped in simple brown paper and tied with a green ribbon. A tiny jingle bell hung from the end. I gave it a shake near my ear.
“It's not ticking, that’s a good sign.”
He didn’t even smirk. That gold firelight in his gaze was so intense, just watching me as if he was battling second thoughts.
“Wait.” His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around my wrist. “You might hate it.”
“I might.”
The pained look in his eyes made my heart squeeze.
“Relax,” I said gently. “Unless it’s a box of fake spiders, I’m sure I’ll love it.”
He swallowed hard, his throat flexing. “It’s not a cat.”
A laugh burst out of me, bright and helpless. “Grant Delaney, just let me open my gift.”
I tugged the ribbon loose. The little bell gave a tinny jingle before tumbling into my lap. Inside the box, nestled in crinkled tissue paper, was a white metal water bottle printed with cherries, and beside it, a small glass jar filled with candied ones.
I stared. “You got me… hydration and fruit.”
“You needed a new water bottle after I ruined your other one.” He shook his head, a wave of hair falling into his eye. “I had no idea there’d be so many pigeons on the roof. Plus… you always ask for extra cherries. Now you’ll always have some.”
The words hit somewhere between my ribs. Somehow, the room felt smaller, the air heavier in the best way.
“You remembered from the retreat?” I asked, though my voice sounded strange.
“Yeah.” He looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. “I always wondered why you liked them so much.”
The firelight danced across his face, softening the hard lines. I ran my finger over one of the tiny red cherries on the bottle, tracing the curve like it might explain why my throat was so tight.
“Mostly because they taste like candy,” I said.
“But also because everyone chases that first buzz from a cocktail—the heady rush that leaves you with a headache when it fades. Cocktail cherries remind me there’s more to it.
The beauty of it—the tiny umbrella, the way the colors swirl in the glass, and the sweet cherry on top. ”
My voice trailed off. A log snapped.
“I think…” I hesitated, my heart beating too fast. “I think that’s what real love is. Not the rush—what’s left when the rush is gone.”
He held my gaze, and for a second, I thought I’d gone too far, stepped right over that line where Valerie’s Worldview Doesn’t Match Anyone Else’s.
But then he exhaled slowly. He reached out, fingertips brushing my cheek.
The space between us didn’t feel like space anymore. It felt like a dreamy whirl inside a snow globe, the light fragmenting, snow blurring everything.
His touch was warm, and a little rough, and every nerve in my body stood at attention.
“Spells?”
I blinked. “What?”
He smiled faintly, eyes flicking to my mouth. “I bet you taste like cherries.”
The world tilted. “We shouldn't—”
“Definitely not.” His voice dropped. “But I'm tired of pretending I don't want to.”
Me either.
And before I could say anything else, or breathe, or think, he leaned in and kissed me.
The first brush of his lips was feather light, as if anything too real might dissolve the moment. A taste, like he promised. I tilted closer. My hand found his shirt, clutching at the fabric as I tugged. He deepened the kiss, the low sound in his throat my new favorite sound of the season.
I didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly I was in his arms, my knees brushing his. I felt him smile, just barely. That maddening smile that always meant trouble. Then he was kissing me again, fingers sliding through my hair, cupping the side of my face.
“We're breaking the marriage rules,” I murmured, gasping against him as his mouth trailed down my neck. “Live and date separately.”
“Then don't wear your hair like this.” His hand wound around the strands, tugging gently. “Makes it impossible to think straight.” His lips found my collarbone. “The way your skin smells. Your laugh.”
He hesitated, breath shivering against my throat. “I haven't wanted anyone else, Spells.”
I stilled, and then the truth slipped out. “Neither have I.”
His head lifted, eyes searching mine. Then he kissed me, slower this time, until everything else faded. There was only the warmth of him and the soft drag of his mouth on mine.
How was this our first kiss? Impossible. There wasn’t a world where I hadn’t kissed him a thousand times. Or maybe it was just years of moments, silent ones, savage ones, of knowing someone at their worst and finally breaking through to see them at their best. The way they’d been the whole time.
We lingered there, breathing each other in, our foreheads resting together while the fire crackled behind us. Somewhere from deep within the house, a floorboard creaked. The ghost guarding her room. And for once, the house didn’t feel so haunted.
Grant’s voice came low, rough around the edges. “So… who won?”
My lips curved, though I didn’t pull back. “Don’t make me say it.”
He tilted his head, one eyebrow lifting, the playful glint returning to his eyes. “Come on. You know you want to.”
I sighed, pretending defeat even as my chest ached from this moment. I’d already lost my magic once, when my belief in love weakened. If it came back because of him, and we failed, when I could’ve just rewritten everything, I wouldn’t know how to pick up the pieces.
Which was why I smiled like nothing hurt and hid behind the joke.
“Fine,” I whispered. “It was… a tie.”
His laughter was quiet and full of warmth. “Someone save me from this witch and her gift puns. I’ll wash, you dry?”
“Deal, Delaney.”