Page 108 of Haunt Me, Maybe

I stood near the edge of the construction site, hands tucked into the sleeves of my sweater, and watched as new support beams were guided into place.

The mill thrummed beneath my boots, almost purring. It had people again. Footsteps. Voices. Breath in its lungs.

No longer on the run, I could finally access my family’s inheritance, and it was more than enough money to restore this place and make it livable. More than enough to plant roots so deep the wind couldn’t pull them up again.

The town had been ecstatic.

Historic preservation with a resident? It practically got its own festival. And now here they were—neighbors, shopkeepers, retired carpenters, teenagers earning community service hours. They were all determined to see it finished before the first heavy snow.

They’d shown up with casseroles and tools and stories about how the mill used to be the heartbeat of the town. Now, they gave it back its pulse. A familiar warmth slid around my waist, and Wes stepped up behind me.

His chin brushed the top of my head before he pressed a slow kiss to my hair, lingering there like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to.

“It’s coming along nicely,” he murmured. “Another week or two and we might actually be able to sleep somewhere that isn’t under a slanted ceiling.”

I huffed softly and tipped my head back to look at him. “Will you be sad to leave it?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “No. The only thing about that attic that made me happy was you.”

My heart did that annoying, inconvenient squeeze it still hadn’t learned to stop doing around him. In front of us, someone whooped as a beam locked into place, and Mrs. Haverly bustled past with a tray of mugs, pretending not to eavesdrop.

“She’ll be heartbroken,” I said, lightly. “Losing her resident ghost. Tourism will never recover.”

Wes snorted. “She’ll rig something. Knock a few picture frames over. Whisper dramatically through the vents.”

“She’ll absolutely fake hauntings.”

“Probably charge extra for it.”

I smiled at the memory of the first time Wes walked back through the inn’s front door alive. Hand in hand with me. Mrs. Haverly hadn’t said a single word about recognizing him. Not when she’d looked at his face. Not when she’d set two cups of tea on the table instead of one. But her smile had been smug.

Wes followed my gaze as I watched Mrs. Haverly scold a teenager for stacking firewood incorrectly.

“You think she knew?” he asked.

“Without a doubt.”

He hummed, thoughtful, and then looked back at the gathering. The scaffolding. The open windows. The lights slowly blinking on inside as dusk deepened. The mill pleasantly buzzed, welcoming us. Not as a hiding place, but as a home.

The river shifted against its banks. Nearby trees swayed on the breeze. Someone started tuning a guitar near the cider table, and the notes rose lazy and sweet.

“You did it,” Wes said, nuzzling my neck.

“We did,” I corrected, and he smiled against my skin.

Warm light spilled out from the mill’s open doors as people drifted inside to admire the fresh woodwork and newly laid floors. I stood on the open field out front and let myself imagine winters here. Spring floods. Summer festivals. Footsteps in the halls. Behind us, Mrs. Haverly’s voice rang out.

“If you two are going to stand there being disgustingly in love, at least come get cider before it’s gone!”

Briony breezed past at that exact moment, a steaming mug balanced in one hand and Fenn tucked regally against her chest like an indignant, moss-green accessory.

“Don’t rush them,” she said, airily. “We need at least one stable couple in this town. It’s aspirational.”

Fenn blinked slowly, his throat pouch puffing.

I’ve lived through three centuries and a plague. I am not certain I can survive your public displays of affection.

Briony took a sip of her cider, not able to hear him but somehow able to understand his contempt all the same.