CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Emery
Apparently,a Hallmark movie and a haunted house got together and gave birth to a creepy little Christmas miracle in the town square of Crowsbridge Hollow.
Garlands loop between lampposts, twined with twinkle lights and fake cobwebs. Skeleton reindeer “pull” a sleigh decorated with red ribbons and black velvet bows that’s parked in front of town hall. Wreaths with tiny skull ornaments hang from black streetlights. Christmas carols drift from some hidden speaker, remixed with sleigh bells and low, spooky chimes.
“Wow,” I breathe. “This is…a lot. How’d I miss all this?”
Next to me, Declan shrugs. “Decorating committee probably didn’t get as far down as the Applewood Inn, yet.” He glances down and grins. “Welcome to Season’s Creepings.” His amused tone barely conceals his contempt for the touristy display.
“I kind of love it,” I admit. “Christmas isn’t…my favorite. But I’ve always loved Halloween, so blending them together seems pretty brilliant.”
He glances at the display again, a more thoughtful expression sliding over his face. “I used to be the opposite. Dreaded Halloween and loved Christmas. This seemed like the worst idea ever, but it’s grown on me recently.”
Recently? Because of me?
Settle down, Emery. He’s a fling. Stop expecting more.
A cold ribbon of air slides under my coat, slithering against the skin of my arm where the mark rests. It tingles, then settles, like it doesn’t want me to forget its existence.
Nope. Not thinking about that tonight.
The glow from all the lights pushes back the fog creeping along the streets, creating the perfect mood. I dig my camera out of my bag, brush my thumb over the familiar buttons, and hit record.
“Crowsbridge Hollow town square,” I murmur for my future editing self. “Locals appear to be fully committed to the concept of spooky Christmas. We’ve got haunted reindeer, cursed garlands, and—oh, look, a snowman with actual fangs. Isn’t this amazing?” The note of awe in my voice isn’t quite on brand, but I can’t find my usual snark tonight.
Declan snorts. “You mocking us locals, Emery?”
“Mocking? No.” Heat flares over my cheeks. “Admiring, yes.”
I pan the camera over the crowd. Kids in puffy coats dart between vendor booths. Adults stand in clusters, laughing, faces flushed from the cold and whatever’s in their paper cups. A couple of vendors are dressed in Victorian caroler outfits. One guy is straight-up Krampus. Horns and everything.
“I love it,” I admit under my breath.
“Good.” Declan’s fingers brush mine, like he’s not sure if he wants to hold my hand out here in front of people. I hook my pinky around his and give a little tug.
Tension seems to flow out of his body.
“Come on,” he says. “You need real food before all that Applewood sugar puts you into a coma.”
“I resent the implication that baked goods aren’trealfood.” Still, my stomach grumbles on cue.Traitor.
We weave through the crowd, passing a few familiar faces. I nod to the librarian and Mrs. Applewood as Declan steers us toward a row of food stalls. The smell hits first—cinnamon, butter, sugar, roasted nuts, grilled something. My mouth waters.
An older woman wearing a purple knitted hat and black-and-purple hooded sweatshirt with bird skeletons all over it, lights up when her gaze lands on Declan. “Mr. Sterling! Think you’ll help me haul the extra bags again this year?”
“I already told you, if you stopped making a hundred pounds of the stuff?—”
“Hush.” She flicks a napkin at him, then turns her attention to me. “Hello...” She lifts an eyebrow and swings her gaze toward Declan as if waiting for an introduction.
“Carol, this is Emery. It’s her first visit to Crowsbridge Hollow?—”
“Emery!” Carol snaps her fingers. “You’re the YouTuber who likes to poke holes in urban legends and stuff, right?”
My throat goes dry. Another local who recognizes me. “Uh, yeah. That’s me.”
She slides her gaze Declan’s way. “Interesting company.”
