She watches me read it.
Unapologetic.
“Do you like it?” she asks.
I clear my throat. “It’s, um … yeah.”
She grins. Then she slides her arm back into the sleeve and begins buttoning her blouse again, like she didn’t just completely derail my ability to think.
“What does it mean?” I ask.
She shrugs.
“I was born premature. On April Fools’ Day. Making me an Aries. The fire sign. My mom used to joke that I came into the world like a wildfire.” She taps her shoulder, where the tattoo sits beneath the fabric. “She started calling me Wildfire.”
I study her. That’s definitely not the answer I was expecting. I figured it was some silly quote she’d picked out of a binder in a tattoo parlor.
“It fits you,” I say, my voice sounding hoarse.
She blushes slightly.
Which surprises me. Because Harleigh Storm doesn’t seem like the type to blush easily.
“What about you? Any hidden ink?”
“I have a few.”
“Really? Where?”
For a beat, the air between us feels … charged.
This conversation has taken a wrong turn, so I try to steer it back on track.
“Um, maybe we should get back to business.”
She picks up her wineglass, and she leans back in her chair, studying me.
“Okay,” she says after a few beats. “Let’s talk about The Lady in Red.”
And just like that, the mood changes.
My spine straightens instinctively.
“She’s a ghost story,” I say, emphasizing the wordstory.
“That’s what makes it interesting.”
“There’s nothing interesting about it.”
She tilts her head. “Sure there is. It brings interest to the hotel.”
“Not the kind I want.”
Her brows knit slightly.
“But think about it,” she says, excitement building. “If people already believe the Belicourt is haunted—”
“Harleigh.”
