Curious, I click the first one.
I visited the Belicourt after reading this book, and I swear I heard footsteps outside my door at midnight …
Another one:
The history in this book is fascinating! I had no idea the hotel had such a tragic past.
And another:
Now I want to travel to Wyoming just to see if I can meet The Lady in Red myself.
I laugh softly.
Interesting.
Review after review says the same thing. People are drawn to the mystery. They love the romance of it all and truly fall for the idea that the Belicourt might actually be haunted.
And dozens—no, hundreds—say the book made them want to visit Wyoming to see for themselves.
My brain starts spinning with possibilities. Ghost tours. Historical storytelling events. A themed cocktail night. Maybe even a Lady in Red murder mystery dinner event.
Marketing gold.
I scroll back to the top of the page. Without even thinking, I clickBuy Nowon the paperback link. It should be here in two days.
“Perfect,” I say aloud.
If there’s even a grain of historical truth behind this story, I want to know.
I close my laptop and glance at the clock on my desk—7:24 p.m.
My eyes widen.
“Oh shoot. I missed supper.”
Grandma has supper on the table at seven o’clock sharp. And you’re either there on time or you’re making yourself a peanut butter sandwich.
I definitely didn’t mean to stay this late.
I close the computer, load my bag, shut off the desk lamp, and step into the hallway.
The Belicourt at night has a completely different energy.
During the day, it’s all business and filled with staff moving purposefully. But now, the long corridors are dimly lit, creating a dreamy atmosphere, and bustling with guests dressed up, looking to enjoy their night.
I’m halfway down the hall toward the lobby when a familiar voice stops me.
“Working late, Miss Storm?”
I turn to see Porter Garrison.
He’s walking toward me from the far end of the hall, with a steady, confident stride, jacket slung casually over one shoulder, like he just stepped off the cover ofForbesmagazine.
My stomach does a tiny little flip that I refuse to acknowledge.
“Please, call me Harleigh,” I say, smiling.
He slows as he reaches me, slipping his jacket on. “Okay, Harleigh. What has you here this late?”
