Page 31 of The Clifftop Cottage

She imagined that voice, clipped and smug, and then deliberately turned it down.

Tonight wasn’t for that woman.

Tonight was for quiet, for no one watching and no one needing her to be anything at all.

She took a slow bite of cake, letting the sweetness melt on her tongue, and for the first time in days she didn’t feel the urge to rush through it.

A bath next.

A door she could close.

A little pocket of the world that belonged only to her.

The water steamed, filling the small bathroom with a warm, misty haze. Erica slid into it with a sigh, her shoulders sinking beneath the surface as the heat worked its way into her tired muscles. Outside, the wind rattled the old windows, a restless, lonely sound she would have to get used to, living on a cliff.

Then, for no reason at all⁠—

She shivered.

Not from the water. From something else.

A soft creak sounded down the hall.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

Erica shot upright, splashing water everywhere, and grabbed her robe, yanking it on with shaking hands. Her heart was racing, which was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.

Her gaze landed on the sage bundle sitting on the counter.

She stared at it.

Then, with a muttered curse, she picked it up.

Just in case.

A match flared. Smoke curled upward, sharp and herbal.

Taking a breath, Erica stepped into the hall.

“Alright,” she said quietly, waving the sage. “Any ghosts, spirits, or … whatever. Time’s up.”

The cottage did not reply.

“Good,” she added. “Because this is my house now.”

She moved from room to room, a little less dignified now. “I am not accepting any more emotional baggage, supernatural or otherwise.”

The bedroom. The sitting room. The kitchen.

She flung open the back door and dramatically wafted the last of the smoke into the night. “Go haunt a lighthouse or something.”

Only wind answered her.

Erica nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

She shut the door, picked up her wine glass, grabbed the bottle for good measure, and locked it.