Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 33333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
“Wow,” I murmur, dragging a manicured finger down the list. “Look at all this joy.”
Thorne’s voice rumbles from behind me. “They keep the place from burning down.”
I turn, flashing my brightest fake smile. “I’ll try not to ignite anything but your temper.”
He doesn’t bother to hide the way his eyes drop to my mouth. “You’re doing fine.”
“Good.” I uncap my lipstick—danger red—and paint my mouth slow, a dare disguised as routine. His gaze tracks every stroke like he wants to smudge it with his thumb. Or his mouth. “Where’s the Wi-Fi?”
“Down.” He folds his arms over his bare chest like a bouncer for the outdoors. “Storm knocked the tower out last week.”
“Okay, what about the plumbing?”
“Works if you don’t take forty-minute bubble baths.”
I cough out a laugh. “So, limited water, no internet, and a rule against fun.” I clap once. “Great. I’m thriving.”
“You look like you’ll survive.” His gaze drifts to the glitter-stuffed crate I wheeled in. “What’s in the box of doom?”
“Seasonal happiness.” I flip the lid and he actually recoils.
Inside: velvet stockings, skull garland, a string of bat fairy lights, a bundle of black tapers, two velvet pumpkins, synthetic spiderweb, and a pre-lit strand labeled BLOOD ORANGE GLOW.
“You’re not hanging that,” he says, chin jerking toward the lights.
I clutch them to my chest like a child with a stuffed animal. “Watch me.”
“Don’t.”
I plant a foot on the arm of the couch, climb, and stretch toward a timber beam. “You threatening me or flirting?”
“Both.” He moves closer, voice low. “You going to listen to either?”
“Nope.” I flick the switch. The strand washes the room in cinnabar glow and smug satisfaction. “See? Cozy, not cursed.”
He steps past me without breaking eye contact and flips the big breaker lever by the fireplace.
The entire lodge sighs into darkness.
Silence. Then my hiss. “You did not.”
His expression is the picture of innocence. “Can’t overload the system.”
“You mean your ego?” I fling the dead lights onto the couch. “Turn it back on.”
“Ask nicely.”
“Please.” I add a knife-sweet smile. “Daddy.”
Something hungry flashes across his face; then it’s gone. “Don’t call me that.” He flips the breaker. The lodge hums awake. “And don’t fry my panel.”
“I’ll control myself,” I lie.
He leans in. “Doubt it.”
I stalk to my box, fishing out a spool of webbing and the bat lights I definitely won’t plug in until he leaves. “Where’s the step ladder?”
“Kitchen.” He doesn’t move.
“Can you get it?”
“I don’t fetch.”
“You will for me.” I tip my head toward the kitchen door. “Unless you like watching me climb furniture.”
His jaw works like he’s chewing through a curse. “Don’t break your neck,” he mutters, disappearing through the swinging door.
Victory tastes like sugar skulls.
I grab the chance to plug the bats in behind the couch. The little wings flutter crimson. Petty? Yes. Worth it? Also yes.
Thorne returns with the ladder, sets it down, and pins me with a look that says he knows exactly what I did. “You’re determined to test me.”
“I’m determined to win.” I toe the ladder. “You hold. I hang.”
“Not a chance.” But he plants his palm on the top rung anyway, bracing the frame like a human anchor. I climb and feel the heat of him rise with me—cedar, smoke, stubbornness. When I lean to drape the webbing, my skirt rides. His breath catches.
“Eyes up, lumberjack,” I tease.
“They are.” His voice roughens. “You’re just in the way.”
I glance down. He’s not looking at the webbing.
My laugh comes out breathier than I intend. I twist a strand, brush the beam, and a shower of old dust rains over my shoulders. I squeal, wobble. His hand clamps my calf, steady and firm.
“Easy.” His palm slides once, slow, like he needs me to feel how strong he is. “I’ve got you.”
“Cocky,” I murmur, heart hammering.
“Capable,” he corrects, and doesn’t move until I do.
By the time I climb down, my pulse won’t settle. I hide it by straightening the velvet pumpkins and pretending the room isn’t vibrating with something dangerous.
“You done?” he asks.
“For now.” I flash teeth. “You can thank me when the lodge wins Best Dressed on HauntedStays.”
“I’ll pass.” His gaze hooks on my mouth again. “You messed up your lipstick.”
“Did I?” I swipe the corner with my thumb.
He watches, wolf-still. “Leave it.”
“Why?”
“Looks like you’ve been kissed.”
Heat slides low in my belly. I look away first.
I raid the kitchen for my emergency candy stash because sugar solves everything except the man in the other room. I set the bowl on the counter—mini Snickers, Sour Bats, wrapped caramels—and dig for a lollipop labeled POISON APPLE when the porch door creaks.
A masked bandit waddles inside.
I freeze. It freezes. We blink at each other.
“Thorne,” I whisper. “Do you have…pets?”
He appears in the doorway, brows flattening. “No.”
“Then why,” I whisper-shout, “is there a raccoon in the kitchen?”
The raccoon clocks the candy, rights its little paws like a burglar, and launches onto the counter with shocking athleticism. Skittles explode across the surface like confetti. The bowl rocks. I lunge.