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)
“What a job. Pestering strangers.”
“My job is asking questions.” Her gaze rakes over me. “And according to my research, you have the answers.”
Research? She researched me? Why? What did she learn? I roll my shoulders, crossing my arms to cage in my questions. “You should leave.”
She grins like I stumbled into her trap. “Look at you proving my point—bossy.”
I narrow my eyes. “You always this irritating, or am I just lucky?”
“That depends.” She leans a little closer, conspiratorial. “Are you always so easy to rile?”
Damn it. She’s enjoying this. And worse, I am too. The Rider’s tack claws at my ribs, heat prickling under my tattoos like they’re listening to her.
“Unless you’re here for a tattoo, you’re wasting my time.” I jerk my chin toward the door. “Go bother someone else.”
Her eyes flick down, then back up with a glint that’s part challenge, part dare. “Sure. But first, why do I need to bring old iron to visit the Weeping Widow?”
Every muscle in my body goes tight. She couldn’t have picked a worse question.
Or a better one.
I step closer, close enough the scent of cinnamon gum cuts through the fog curling inside me. Close enough to see the pulse jump at her throat.
“Careful, little bird,” I murmur. “That’s a dangerous question.”
Her smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it tightens. “Good thing I don’t scare easy.”
Of course she doesn’t. She’s standing in my shop, eyes bright, daring me without realizing it. Brave or stupid—I can’t decide which. Either way, it triggers my defensive side.
“You think this town’s a simple creepy sideshow.” My voice comes out low, edged. “But you don’t understand what you’re poking at.”
“I understand enough.” She taps her crow pin like it’s a badge. “People make up stories for a reason, but there’s usually some truth underneath. My job is to uncover that truth.”
“Go search for your ‘truth’ in another town.”
Her brows lift. “Why? From what my viewers say, this one has fantastic material.”
I grit my teeth. Her viewers told her about us. That’s why she’s here?
The Rider’s tack scrapes hard against my ribs, answering the mention like a summons. Every instinct screams to shove her out the door before she sees too much.
I step back, put space between us. “Conversation’s over.”
Her eyes widen, just slightly. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
She blinks, then laughs, shaking her head like I’m ridiculous. “You really don’t make this easy, do you?”
I nod toward the door. “Time for you to go.”
She doesn’t move right away. Stubborn woman. Instead, she slings her bag over her shoulder and meets my gaze head-on.
“You’ll talk to me eventually,” she says, confident and calm. “Even the most reluctant people always do.”
Not me.
The bell jingles as she steps into the fog.
I stand there long after she’s gone, fists tight, chest burning. The red bulbs in the window flicker once, twice, then steady.
My tattoos writhe beneath my skin like they’ve been fed. The Rider stirs, hooves pounding against my ribs.
Outside, the bells keep jingling. But they sound wrong—out of sync, off-key.
That girl—the curious, pretty little bird with fearless eyes and too many questions—has no idea she just painted a target on herself.
CHAPTER THREE
Emery
What an absolute jackass!
I stalk into the fog, boots smacking the sidewalk harder than necessary. My cheeks burn. Not from embarrassment—nope—from pure irritation.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter. “Guy’s built like a Norse god, smells like sin and iron, but can’t string together more than two words without being a rude twatwaffle.”
Crowsbridge Hollow’s Main Street glitters like a holiday nightmare. Red and black bulbs blink in time with the music spilling faintly from a nearby speaker—a dark synth tune that could have been borrowed from the soundtrack of a John Carpenter movie instead of a cheery carol. A garland of pine and bones droops from a lamppost, sparkling in the fog.
I clutch my bag tighter. This whole creepy Christmas thing Crowsbridge Hollow does might be fun if I wasn’t just dismissed by the biggest jerk in town. What did I expect? Open arms and the keys to all the town’s secrets? Of course not. But I sure didn’t expect to get tossed out as if I’m a pesky salesperson popping up to push an extended car warranty.
The worst part? I can’t stop replaying the way his arms looked folded across that ridiculous chest, muscles pulling shirt fabric tight. Or the way his tattoos seemed to shift when I wasn’t staring straight at them. Or the way his dark eyes locked on mine, as if he could see every secret I store in the back of my skull.
Nope. Not thinking about him. Not worth wasting the brain power.
I slow my steps, dig in my tote for my notebook, uncap my pen, and scrawl across the page: Ink & Iron guy = hostile source. Revisit. Then, beneath it, almost against my will, I add,
Tantalizingly tall. Too hot for his own good. Grumpy AF.