Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
His grin sharpens. “Among other things.”
Harper reappears with water and a basket of warm bread that smells like heaven. “Know what you want?”
“I’ll have the pork,” I say quickly before I can overthink it.
Declan closes his menu. “The shepherd’s pie. And would Gloria mind making a small plate of that pumpkin ravioli to start?”
Harper’s lips curve. “For you? Gloria will make anything.” She winks at him and takes the menus before disappearing again.
The clink of dishes and low hum of conversation fills the space between us. Declan tears a piece of bread in half and slides it across the table toward me. “You’ll like this. It’s baked with honey and sea salt.”
I take it, the warmth seeping into my fingers. “You sure you don’t own this place? They treat you like royalty.”
He lifts one shoulder in an embarrassed half-shrug. “Small town. Harper’s dad was a friend of my mother’s.”
I tear a piece of bread and pop it in my mouth to stop myself from asking if he has history with Harper. The bread melts against my tongue, nutty and warm, keeping my mouth occupied so I don’t say something that makes me sound unhinged. I need to stop turning every woman in this town into competition. “Sounds like you don’t spend all of your time brooding in your haunted tattoo shop?”
He lets out a low, rumbling laugh that warms the mood between us.
“Brooding?” he echoes, shaking his head. “Maybe I do that more than I realize.”
“It’s not a bad thing,” I say quickly. “You seem like someone who carries a lot.”
His smile softens, but he doesn’t deny it. “Some weights are hard to let go of.”
I trace the rim of my water glass, watching the condensation bead under my finger. “Yeah. I understand that feeling.”
He leans forward, elbows resting on the table. “What weight are you carrying, Emery?”
He asks with kindness, but the question still cuts right through me. “The kind that follows you even when you move away.”
His brow furrows, concern flickering across his face. “Why’d you make the switch from serious journalism to…” He trails off as if he’s searching for a word that won’t insult me. “Debunking myths?”
Since I’m well aware of how little he thinks of my current “career” I appreciate his effort. It pushes me to share more than I normally would.
“I know you said because you like to travel and investigate.” He hesitates. “But it seems like there’s more to it?”
“My mom swore she had ‘gifts,’” I say after a long pause. “She made her whole life about the supernatural—chasing spirits, ghosts, past lives, angel numbers, signs. I grew up with séances instead of story time.” I give a small, humorless laugh. “Most kids had nightlights. I had candles and salt circles.”
Declan doesn’t look away. “That’s a heavy load for a kid to handle.”
“It was,” I admit. “It was terrifying sometimes. We moved a lot. She’d have strangers in and out of the house to bless it or cleanse it, depending on what phase of her supernatural journey she was in at the moment.” I take a deep breath, the old bitterness giving way to the shame I’ve worked hard to bury. “She spent all her money on psychics and fortune tellers. We ended up living in our car more than once. Ended up in foster care for a short time.”
“That must’ve made school even more difficult.”
For someone who seems to have had a relatively stable life—he still owns his ancestral home after all—he seems to have compassion instead of contempt for my story.
“Sure. Kids were mean.” Heat creeps over my cheeks and I nervously tug at the ends of my freshly washed hair. “I wasn’t always…well-groomed or dressed in clean clothes, so kids—and even teachers sometimes—made fun of me. Plus, sometimes my mom would show up rambling about spooky nonsense that freaked people out.”
“That’s rough. I’m sorry you went through that.”
I lift one shoulder but can’t meet his concerned stare. “It’s fine. I survived.”
He studies me for a long moment. “Doesn’t sound fine,” he says quietly.
The warmth in his voice wraps around me. I glance up and find him watching me like he’s memorizing every word I’ve said, and he’s waiting for more. It’s too much and yet I want to bask in his attention.
“She did the best she could with the skills she had,” I whisper. “At least that’s what I’ve come to believe with time and distance.”
“That’s very generous.” His brow furrows. “And probably a healthier attitude than most would have.”
“I…I had to make peace with my past somehow. She’s gone. I was busy with school and stuff, so we hadn’t spoken in a while.” I shrug as if that doesn’t haunt me some nights. “I’ll never get closure with her, you know?”
His expression softens. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know about living without closure.”