I jump off the couch and stare at him. “What is it?”
“An iron key pendant.” He stops in front of me, the pendant swinging between us. “I make different ones and sell them in the shop. You didn’t see the display?”
My throat goes dry. “How could I when you practically threw me out on my butt? After all that hostility, you’re giving me jewelry?”
“Calm yourself. It’s not an engagement ring.” His gaze pins me in place, hot and unflinching. “This isn’t about jewelry. It’s about protecting you when you’re determined to go where you don’t belong. You can’t carry that nail around town and stab yourself every time you stick your hands in your pocket.” He lets out a heavy sigh. “Wearing this around your neck will keep you safer than a nail in your pocket anyway.”
The key’s still swinging from his fingers, almost as if it’s reaching for me on its own.
He steps close enough that the heat of his body seeps through my sweatshirt. “Let me,” he says, voice low, rough.
I should tell him no. The chain is long enough for me to slip it over my head. Instead, I tip my chin up, silently granting him permission. He brushes my hair back, grazing my skin as he fastens the chain around my neck. The iron key settles cold and heavy against my skin. His touch is warm. The combination sends a shiver down my spine.
I pinch the key between my fingers and stare down at it. “So, what door does it open?”
“Emery.” He sighs, his gaze holding mine. “Not every door is meant to be unlocked.”
CHAPTER SIX
Emery
Morning arrives slowlyin a town this gray. Light seeps through the flimsy curtains of my room in the Applewood Inn. It’s more of a suggestion that morning is here, than a declaration. The radiator clicks and sighs. Faint scents of lavender detergent and fresh coffee brewing somewhere in the house make my nose twitch.
I sit up and untangle my boobs from the straps of the tank top I slept in last night. Never fails, one of the girls always tries to make a run for it. The bag of fudge sitting on the nightstand tempts me with the sweet scent of maple-sugary goodness. Fudge for breakfast is regret waiting to happen, but I’m traveling, so it doesn’t count, right?
I reach for the white paper bag and something cold shifts on my sternum.
The iron key pendant.
It’s heavier than it looks. I pick it up and stare at it, the links of the silver chain gently rasping against my fingers. My skin still tingles where Declan’s fingers brushed my hair aside to slip the chain on. Figures my body would obsess over what I didn’t authorize it to.
Somewhere downstairs, cutlery clinks, a door thumps, voices murmur, then fade. The halls had been silent last night when I returned to the inn after Declan walked me here, broody as a bodyguard assigned to protect a pop star from her own scandals.
I drop the pendant and reach for the bag of fudge again. Several new aches complain. My shoulder where I’d ricocheted off Declan’s chest, my feet, and my left knee all have thoughts about how I spent my night. I rub my fingertip, expecting it to hurt from where I’d stabbed myself with the nail. It doesn’t. No dried blood or anything. Should it have healed so fast? Maybe it seemed worse than it was because it’d been so sudden and unexpected.
Or maybe Declan’s sinful mouth has healing properties.
This town is making me lose my mind.
I pop a piece of fudge into my mouth, letting the buttery maple sugar melt before crunching down on the walnuts. My tripod, bag of equipment, and laptop wait silently across the room on the desk, little reminders of work I should be doing. Reviewing my footage. Recording a “field notes” segment before all the wacky details of last night start to fade. Instead, I wind the iron key’s chain around my finger until it bites into my skin.
Declan clearly doesn’t like me. That much is obvious. He looks at me like I’m a pesky intruder, not a person. Yet, he went out of his way to give me this pendant, saying it would keep me safe.
Safe from what, though?
Either he truly believes the Hollow’s legends, which makes him both superstitious and weirdly earnest. Or he’s part of some town-wide con, putting on a show to thrill the tourists hoping to discover something spooky while visiting.
Except…he doesn’t strike me as the type who’d waste time on smoke and mirrors. He’s too serious. Too honest in his disdain.
Could he actually believe in the Weeping Widow and the Ironbound Rider?
Never attribute to the paranormal that which can be explained by insanity.Maybe the grumpy tattoo artist with pecs of steel is just nuts.
I need an unbiased opinion. I swipe my phone off the nightstand and thumb to Wren’s name.
She answers almost immediately, filling the screen with her sheet-masked face, messy bun with her bangs wrapped in one giant curler, and a green sweatshirt with an illustration of Medusa and “Petrify the Patriarchy” written underneath.
“Well, hello there, my favorite little ghoul chaser,” she teases, the mask muffling her words just a bit. “You look like you slept in a cemetery.”
