An unexpected sense of peace washes over me. I should be terrified. Screaming, running, calling for help.
But I’m not.
There’s something about his presence that feels familiar somehow. Safe. The only thing that scares me is that he might look away. Somehow, in his gaze, I feel known. Seen. Down to my soul.
I don’t want him to disappear.
We study each other. Who was he?Whenwas he?
His shirt is old-fashioned—laced at the neck andsmudged with dirt, like he wiped his hand down the front. Dark hair falls messily to his collar. Even in the foggy reflection, I can tell he’s strong. Tough. Like he’s got bigger things to worry about than clothing and hair.
“Who are you?” My voice is barely a whisper.
And yet, his eyes snap to mine, corners narrowing with intensity. His gaze is a force, a weight, like it might bore through time to reach me. Charisma rolls off him, an invisible thread pulled tight between us.
He mouths something, but all I hear is silence.
“What?”
He tries again, frustration creasing his brow. Shaking his head, his lips form words he needs me to understand.
A surge of heat prickles my chest as his anguish pierces me, sharp and insistent. His need becomes my own. I press my palms to the cold glass, like I could reach through time itself to touch him.
It’s too much. I squeeze my eyes shut.
When I open them again, he’s gone.
Chapter
Two
Iwhip the curtain shut with shaking hands and stagger back until my knees hit the bed. I drop, pulse hammering in my throat. “What the hell wasthat?”
There’s no explanation. Nothing rational, anyway. It can’t be a ghost. Can it? No. I’d be laughed out of the physics department for even entertaining the thought. I huff an amused breath.Ghosts.As if.
It was just a hallucination. A bizarre waking dream brought on by exhaustion, hunger, jet lag, anxiety. And Janet’s stupid song.
I stand and straighten the sheets, fluff the unfluffable pillows, and triple-check the curtains. I kick off my jeans and crawl back into bed, then turn off the light.
So what if I pull the covers completely over my head? It’s not fear. Just practical. Light-blocking. That’s all.
I doze fitfully, waking every hour to check the empty room. By 5:00 a.m., I give up on sleep entirely. It’s too early for breakfast, so I take a long shower. Hot water hits mewith needle-sharp pressure, scalding away the lingering chill and filling the tiny bathroom with steam.
By the time I’m done, I’m convinced it was all a strange nightmare, induced by exhaustion and that horrible Loch Lomond ghost song.
Needing to flee this room, I tiptoe down the stairs and am surprised to find the dining room lights are already on. I can hear dishes and pots clanking in the kitchen.
If that sneering front-desk Annie is back there, she’s the last person I feel like dealing with. I take one tiptoed step backward and am almost in the clear when the floorboard creaks.
There’s a murmured exclamation followed by a quick shuffling step headed my way. I panic, unsure what to do. It’d look stupid to scurry back to my room now.
“Come in, come in.” A short, thick-waisted woman scuttles from the back, smiling wide. A rag is tucked in the waistband of her navy-blue skirt, and she wipes her hands on it.
“I’m Una, and you must be the wee American, though nae so wee, are you?” She gives me a satisfied once-over. “But you missed dinner,” she scolds. “Now sit yourself down and eat before I take it personal.” The words are sharp, but her grin is warm, like we’ve known each other forever.
“I’m sorry, you’re probably super busy. I came down way too early.” The last thing I want is to be a burden. I know what it’s like to get an early-morning kitchen going. I instinctively reach for my phone to check the time, then remember it’s dead. “I’ll come back when?—”
“You’ll do no such thing, lass. You slept the clock around. Must be ready to eat a horse.” She tsks. “Young woman like you, traveling all alone. My sister would never let Annietravel. Annie’s her girl, see, and she’s a different sort than you, I imagine.” She gives me a wry smile. “It will have been Annie who checked you in, aye?” She nods, answering her own question. “Our Annie, she’s a smart one.” Her tone suggests that’s not necessarily a compliment. “No troubles sleeping last night?”
