The heater hums, warming the cab. Pine and something distinctly Declan fill the air.
And in the tight space between us, a quiet, terrifying hope gathers in my chest.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Declan
Emery’s the perfect co-pilot.
She points out each turn in advance, giving me time to signal and slow. I easily picture us on the road, traveling all over the country together. She can investigate hauntings and I’ll line up guest spots in local tattoo shops or bookings at conventions.
Hold up.Better not let myself get carried away. Besides the directions, she doesn’t say a word. Her silence could mean she’s thinking of a polite way to ask me to drop her off or she’s considering everything I said.
I meant every word.
Regret being with her. Is she nuts? She’s the smartest, most vibrant, interesting woman I’ve ever known. Brave and unshakeable too.
How could she convince herself I’d be settling for her?
Legacy doesn’t have to mean blood. If she wants kids, we can adopt. Or foster kids.Nope.Don’t mention that. She’s too skittish right now. One wrong word could send her into retreat mode.
I glance over and she’s staring out the window, hands folded in her lap. Completely calm on the outside, but on the inside, I’d bet her thoughts are all over the place.
“It’s up here on the right. The green and white two-story,” Emery says.
There’s a short driveway next to the simple house, but Emery’s car takes up the space. I pull to a stop at the curb in front.
I turn and meet her serious eyes.
Then, while holding her gaze, I deliberately shut off the truck and take out the key.
Invite me in.
Her fingers tighten around the roses, and her other hand reaches for the door handle.
“Do you want to come in?” she asks.
Fuck, yes, I do.
I jump out and round the truck to her side so fast, I’m probably nothing more than a blur to her. I open the door and offer her my hand.
Her fingers curl into mine.
“It’s, um, a simple two-family. Split into two apartments,” Emery explains. “Wren lives in the upstairs apartment.” She points to the top floor, then to a similar house less than fifteen feet away. The whole block is crammed full of similar, modest homes in various shades of white, beige or green. “Our landlord lives next door.”
“Convenient.”
I’ve gone down so many Emery Corbin rabbit holes in the last couple of days. Studied her channel, her website. Her rabid fanbase. She’s more popular than she lets on and has tons of followers. Somehow, I expected her to live in a nicer place.
She didn’t have a family to leave her a fucking estate, you classist asshole.
She’s done everything on her own.
Inside, the scent of cinnamon and something light and floral washes over me. She shrugs out of her coat and hangs it up in a small closet right inside the door.
It’s nicer than it looks from the outside. Warm and lived in.
A dark green leather couch with overstuffed cushions takes up most of the living room—comfortable, worn in the right places, like she actually uses it often. Bookshelves line the wall, crammed with everything from paranormal research to racy-looking romance novels. I can easily imagine her curled up on the couch, reading late into the night.
