Geezus.I shouldn’t be noticing that.
She straightens, brushing her hands together.
“Anyway,” she continues, completely oblivious to the mental war happening in my head, “she’s a tank, but Bessie here is like family.”
I nod slowly. “I can tell.”
The silence stretches for a second.
Then I clear my throat. “Well … congratulations again on the contract.”
Her smile softens. “Thank you.”
She reaches for the door handle. “I guess I’d better head home before they send out a search party.”
“Have a good night,” I say.
She opens the door and climbs into the cab.
The engine roars to life with a deep, throaty rumble, and country music explodes from the speakers.
I step back as she waves.
“See you tomorrow, boss!”
Boss.
The word coming from her lips does something strange to my chest.
She pulls the elastic out of her hair, and suddenly, long, loose curls tumble down around her shoulders. The wind catches them immediately. She shifts into gear and backs out of the parking space. And as she drives past me, singing at the top of her lungs to whatever song is blasting through the speakers, those curls fly wildly around her face. Her smile is wide and completely unfiltered.
Joy.
Pure, unapologetic joy.
And for reasons I don’t fully understand, I can’t look away.
I’m supposed to be finalizing vendor lists for the Western Builders Trade Show.
Instead, I’m staring at a ghost. Well … not literally.
But my laptop screen is filled with article after article about The Lady in Red. The Belicourt’s famous legend.
And the more I read, the more fascinated I become.
The hotel is bustling now. Evening has settled in, and the restaurant, lounges, and bars are filling up. Music and laughter drift faintly through the hallway outside my office.
My desk lamp casts a warm circle over my laptop and notepad. Everything else in the room sits in shadow. Which frankly feels appropriate, considering I’m researching a ghost.
I lean closer to the screen, scrolling through another article.
Local folklore claims that the spirit of a woman, dressed in a crimson gown, roams the halls of the historic Belicourt Resort Hotel.
My lips curl into a grin. I love this kind of stuff. Not because I necessarily believe it. But because stories like this are gold for tourism. People are fascinated by tall tales. Haunted hotels. Mysterious deaths. Any unexplained occurrence.
Half the reason people visit places like Savannah or New Orleans is because of their ghost tours.
And the Belicourt has its own resident ghost.
