Chapter Twenty-Five
Harriet
ou’re telling me you got all of this”—Sasha gestures to the mistletoe onY the ceiling—“on discount from some Podunk tree farm down on the coast.”
“It’s not a Podunk tree farm. They actually run a pretty robust operation,” I explain. “They have an ice-skating rink. And a bakery.” Sasha looks at me over her glasses. “Okay. You’re telling me you got ten thousand pounds of mistletoe from a robust operation. And you installed all of it yourself. On the one day I wasn’t working this week.”
I scoop up another handful of rogue buttons and deposit them in a vase in the shape of a hedgehog. The original glass jar met its demise on the hardwood floor of the shop courtesy of Sasha’s oversize handbag. She had been too busy staring open-mouthed at the ceiling to realize she was destroying half of our seasonal inventory.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s what I’m telling you. Three times now.”
“Don’t cop a tone.” Her eyes narrow. “What did you use?”
“For what?”
“For the mistletoe.” Sasha points aggressively at the ceiling. “What did you use to install the mistletoe?”
“Oh. Um.” I study it, squinting. “String? And some … double-sided tape?”
Sasha makes a disbelieving sound. “There must be a whole lot of holiday magic up there with it, if double-sided tape is doing the job.”
Yes, I want to tell her. There is a lot of holiday magic up there. I kissed a Ghost of Christmas Past and it made his magic spin out of control. I’m supposed to be helping him move on, but instead I’m getting attached. These choices are going to hurt me when he eventually disappears, but I don’t know how to stop. I don’t want to.
I collect another handful of buttons, dropping them in the back of a prickly little hedgehog. Leave it to me to develop feelings for the most unavailable man in the room.
I’ve been floating on a cloud since we left my house this morning, but now
my feet are slowly returning to the ground. Nolan is a ghost. He’s going to disappear. And I’m indulging in these feelings like I’ve got nothing to lose.
But I can’t turn off the hopeful piece of my heart. It’s as much a part of me as breathing.
The string of unanswered text messages on my phone is proof enough of that.
I texted my sister this morning while Nolan was in my shower, wanting to talk to someone about everything bumbling around in my chest. But all I got in response was a quick: in a meeting, will text you later.
She never texted me later.
I’m not sure why I keep bothering.
Because you hate feeling like you did something wrong, the little voice at the back of my head whispers. Because you miss your sister.
I used to think the only place I fit was with Samantha. That if we could make it through our turbulent childhood—if we could withstand my mother constantly pitting us against each other—then we’d always have a place to land. But I think that’s gone now, destroyed with a handful of caustic words tossed out in the heat of the moment.
Maybe I don’t fit anywhere. Maybe I’m not supposed to. Maybe my best bet is a ghost with a guilt complex.
I laugh, slightly hysterical, and reach for some of the buttons that skittered under a coffee table. Sasha gives me a concerned look.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I tell her. Out of my depth and almost out of time, but I’m fine.
She gives me another critical look, but she doesn’t push. It’s one of my favorite things about Sasha. She can hold me accountable when I need it, but she gives me the space to live in my own delusional little bubble when I need that, too.
Her attention flits back to the ceiling. “Do we need to, like, water them?”
She stands so she can touch a bundle, mesmerized. “They’re so pretty.”
They are pretty. Pretty and achingly romantic. Every inch of my store is covered. Even the storage closet has mistletoe clustered around the busted bulb I haven’t bothered to replace.
“Holy shit,” Sasha whispers, backing up a step and almost sending another glass object crashing to the floor. I grip her by her sweater and pull her away from the crystal, but she’s pressing up on her toes, peering over my shoulder.
“They’re pretty, too.” She starts slapping at the top of my head, trying to get
me to turn. “Have they been here the entire time?”
I swat her hand away and stand, brushing at the backs of my jeans, my hedgehog vase of buttons clutched protectively in one arm. “What are you talking about? Stop hitting me.”
“Them,” she explains with a whisper, shaking me back and forth. “Look at them.”
I finally look. Nolan is walking up one of the aisles, a heavy frown fixed on his handsome face. It’s a sharp departure from the cuddly, affectionate man I left at the back of the shop, but no less striking. He’s rolling his thermal up over his forearms with sharp, practiced movements, but his frustration only makes him look more windswept, in a sexy pirate sort of way.
The source of his discontent appears behind him in the form of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
“Whoa,” I whisper and Sasha makes a sound in agreement. Nolan looks like he’s trying to communicate something with his face, but I’m too focused on the stunning brunette slightly behind him to do much decoding.
“Harriet,” Nolan says. “I’d like to introduce you to Isabella.” Isabella.
Isabella. Isabella. A tiny bell of recognition rings somewhere in the back of my mind. She extends a graceful hand in my direction while my brain tries to work it out, her sharp eyes flicking down my body and up again. I struggle not to fidget with the edge of my sweater. She has shiny, dark hair. Elegant brows. Cheekbones for days. She looks like she could kill a man with the heel of her shoe and then slurp up their soul with a silly straw.
I’m unironically wearing a giant red bow and I’m pretty sure I have a dust bunny clinging to my ass.
I grab her hand with mine, feeling stupid and small and more than a little intimidated.
“Nice to meet you,” I squeak out, the second half of the statement twisting up like a question.
“It’s really not,” Nolan mutters under his breath.
A catlike grin flirts with the edges of Isabella’s mouth. “I’d like to say Nolan has told me all about you, but he’s been … tight-lipped.” Like Nolan, her voice is tinged with a light accent. Her eyes cut in his direction. “I can see now he has his reasons.”
I drop her hand and cling to my vase. I look to Nolan for reassurance, but he’s got his nose pinched between thumb and forefinger. I blink back to
Isabella. “What do you mean?”
A throaty laugh tumbles out of her. “You have a bruise on your neck.”
I remember Nolan’s rough growl this morning, his mouth working against my skin while his fingers twisted between my legs. I saw the purple half- moon below my ear in the hallway mirror when we were leaving and did my best to hastily hide it with drugstore concealer.
Not well enough, apparently.
I clap my hand over the mark, my face flushing hot. “Curling iron,” I explain.
Sasha, Isabella, and Nolan all give me varying looks of disbelief. Isabella’s is tinged with amusement, Nolan’s with faint satisfaction.
Sasha looks like she’s about to pull a bag of popcorn out of her purse and use one of the sideboard tables as her bench seat.
“You don’t curl your hair,” Sasha whispers out of the side of her mouth.
My blush deepens. “Thanks for that, Sash.”
“Is it a hickey?” she continues.
“Sasha.”
“He has one, too. Did you make out with this hot man?” She pauses, shifting incrementally closer. “He has a mustache,” she says, scandalized.
Maybe a little enamored.
I know the feeling.
My lips twitch. “Sasha. Please.”
“Who are these people? Where did they come from? Have they been here the whole time? Are they customers? Did they bring the mistletoe? They don’t look like they work at a farm.”
Isabella’s smile grows into something predatory.
“I didn’t see them come in,” Sasha adds. “How did they get in?”
She shouldn’t have seen them at all. Or, if she did, she shouldn’t have noticed them.
More things are changing, then. Isabella and Nolan exchange a knowing look.
“I see what you mean,” Isabella says to Nolan. Her gaze flicks between Sasha and me. “This is an unusual situation.”
Nolan releases a long-suffering sigh. “I told you,” he says to her under his breath. He looks at me and his lips quirk in reassurance. “Everything is fine,” he says. “Isabella is just checking in on our mutual … project.”
The pieces slowly slot themselves into place. Isabella, Nolan’s boss from
the afterlife. The one he needed to check in with when everything started going off the rails.
She settles her attention on me with a sly smile. I shiver. Sasha nudges me with her elbow.
“Oh. This is Sasha. She helps me run the store.” The four of us stand there, awkward and silent. “Maybe she could show you around a little bit? Are you interested in anything?”
“I saw what I came for,” Isabella says, her gaze unwavering. She shifts her attention to the counter behind me, cluttered with various items. “Though I wouldn’t mind looking around a little bit. I’m intrigued by your collection.”
“Is that necessary?” Nolan asks, sounding like he’s standing at the very edge of his patience. He gives me a weary look. I shrug.
“I don’t mind,” I offer. No way she’s worse than New Balance guy. I give Isabella a shy smile. “Let me know if you see anything you’d like to know more about.”
She moves toward a shelf full of snow globes I set out for the holiday season. As she crosses the room, I’m seized by the sudden, irrational urge to defend Nolan. I don’t know why she’s here, but I have my guesses. Nolan doesn’t deserve to suffer for my own indecision.
“Nolan’s been great,” I blurt out, my pulse fluttering like butterfly wings.
“He’s been very … helpful during this process. So if he’s—if he’s in trouble or something, he—um. He shouldn’t be.”
Sasha frowns at me. “What in the hell are you talking about? Who is
Nolan?”
Nolan lifts his hand. “I am.”
“What process?” Sasha hisses, ignoring him. She looks at the ceiling again, suspicious. “Is this about the mistletoe? Are you dealing illegal Christmas greenery now?”
I hush her, holding eye contact with Isabella even though it makes me feel like there’s a tuning fork vibrating up the length of my spine. “So if he violated some sort of rule with the—with the greenery, I just want to assure you that he’s, um, doing everything he can to deliver the final, uh, product on time.”
The final product being my reckoning, I guess.
Isabella’s face softens, her eyes losing some of their fire and brimstone.
“All is well, Ms. York,” she reassures me. “I’m assured Nolan will deliver the project on time.” Her eyes narrow as she shoots him a look. A warning.
“He always does.”
Nolan shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Always a pleasure to see you, Isabella.”
“And you have always been a terrible liar.” She laughs. She looks at me.
“Harriet. This has been very illuminating. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I respond. “I think.”
She wanders back to the snow globe shelf as I exchange another heavy look with Nolan. I’m not exactly sure what’s happened in this conversation.
He takes a half-step closer, hand reaching for my elbow.
“Harriet,” he says. “Can we—”
“Where did you find this?” Isabella snaps. She’s crouched in front of the lowest shelf, cradling the dainty birdcage music box I never bothered to return to its proper place. Instead I put it with the snow globes, hoping someone might stop by the festive display and pick it up.
“The music box?”
She nods wordlessly, standing slowly. She reaches for the knob underneath without looking, twisting it easily three times to the right. The light, tinkling melody winds its way around the room, and her eyes flutter shut, body swaying.
“I think my aunt got it at a flea market in Baltimore,” I offer, though Isabella doesn’t seem to be listening. “It’s usually mostly nonsense and garbage, but sometimes you can find good stuff if you spend the proper time looking.”
“A flea market,” she whispers, her hard edges melting away and revealing something soft beneath. She traces the bird. “My father gave me one just like this when I was a girl. Voliere de la Cour,” she whispers. She lifts her head and presses it to her chest. “How much do you want for it?”
“You can have it,” I offer, hoping it might earn me a little goodwill with the tiny, terrifying boss of the spirits. Maybe some for Nolan, too.
Her dark eyes turn assessing. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. It’s no problem.” Nolan makes a low sound of protest. I ignore it. “We have some gold paper I really like. I could wrap it up for you, if you wanted?”
“Harriet,” Nolan interrupts. “You don’t have to.”
“Why not? She obviously likes it.”
“So do you.”
“Not like that,” I say.
Isabella stands at the register with the music box cradled in her hands, oblivious to the conversation happening around her. She only has eyes for the small metal bird and the precious box beneath. It’s the same way my aunt Matilda used to look at boxes that arrived at the doorstep of the Crow’s Nest.
That very first look, when she cracked open the cardboard, dust motes spiraling out and old, faded things settling in. She knew the value of the trinkets inside exceeded anything anyone could pay with money. She knew
there were memories attached.
She honored that.
The melody stops and Isabella immediately winds it again, the first note slightly out of tune.
Nolan drags a hand through his hair, jaw clenched tight. “You don’t need to do things to make other people happy.” He moves closer, ducking his
head. “Don’t be a steamroll, Harriet.”
I laugh. “A steamroll?”
“You are almost stubbornly self-sacrificing.” He huffs. My smile fades. “I wish you’d assert yourself more.”
The hit lands somewhere in my softest spot.
I wish you’ d assert yourself. Toughen up, Harriet, it’s not a big deal.
Why are you crying? Come on, Harriet. You’re acting like a child.
It’s the same sentiment I’ve heard more or less for the past two decades, and heat climbs my cheeks. Nolan pales, his face immediately falling into something apologetic. “I just meant you don’t have to give up the things you enjoy for the contentment of others.”
“I know what you meant,” I whisper. It’s the best I can manage. “If you haven’t noticed, this is an antiques shop. We sell antiques.” And the first time I sold that specific music box, it was to an ungrateful woman in matching athleisure who thought the dove was a sparrow. In my mind, it’s going to an infinitely more appreciative audience.
His lips flatten in a line. I flit my gaze to Isabella, who is watching our exchange with interest. “Sasha can wrap that up for you,” I offer. “I’m going to grab a broom from the back for the rest of this—” I gesture at the odds and ends decorating the floor from Sasha’s earlier mishap. I can relate deeply to the shattered crystal serving bowl, tipped on its side. “For the rest of this stuff,” I finish.
Nolan tries to reach for my wrist as I move past him, but I evade his touch, wanting the sanctuary of the dark closet. It doesn’t take a lot of introspection
to realize why Nolan’s words feel like a balloon slowly losing air, wedged beneath my rib cage.
This morning, Nolan made me feel like my softness was the most beautiful thing about me. Now he’s using it as a weapon to lash out. I understand he might be tense with the sudden appearance of his boss, but I don’t deserve to be on the receiving end of his frustration.
Nolan allows me exactly thirty-two seconds of reprieve in the dark before he shoulders his way in. I lean against a shelf.
“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.”
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I didn’t mean for that to sound as it did.”
“I know you didn’t,” I tell him, staring dutifully at one of my storage shelves in the dark. I rearrange a wayward can of silver polish and try to move past the boulder in my chest. “Doesn’t mean it’s not true, though.”
Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt to hear him say it.
“Harriet,” he says again, and I feel the brush of his hand between my shoulder blades. He toys with one of my curls. “I let my temper get the best of me. Isabella’s appearance was … unexpected.” He pauses. “And I don’t like her touching your things,” he adds with a grumble.
“None of these things are mine,” I say quietly. “They’re things I’ve found.
Things I’ve taken care of. But they don’t belong to me.” I can see him only in lines and shadows, his features obscured by the dark. It reminds me so much of our first meeting that my heart turns over in my chest. “Are you worried?”
I ask. “About Isabella.”
“I’m not entirely sure,” he says. “It was a warning, I think. Or as close to a warning as Isabella gets.” He makes another low, frustrated sound. “I can’t see you back here.”
I gesture up at the ceiling. “I still haven’t replaced the light bulb.” He reaches above us without looking and twists the busted bulb.
Soft, golden light immediately fills the room.
A laugh tumbles out of me. I can’t help but be charmed every time he uses
his magic.
“Show off.”
A dimple flashes in his cheek as he drops his hand, cradling my jaw instead. He holds my face the same way Isabella was holding the music box.
“This is better,” he says. “I like it better when you smile.”
“Then don’t make me frown.” I circle my fingers around his wrist and hold
on, all of my frustration unspooling at the look on his face. “Talk to me,” I whisper. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Isabella said—” He swallows heavily, his throat working with the motion.
“Isabella said the consequences of my actions will affect the both of us.”
I frown. “Okay?”
He drops his hand from my face, settling it on my hip instead. His fingers search beneath the thick material of my sweater until he reaches skin, and a relieved sigh rattles out of him. “I don’t know what happens if I miss my deadline. I thought I would bear the weight of that decision alone, but now —”
Ah, I see. “You’re worried it will affect me as well.”
Nolan nods, hesitant.
“What are the consequences?”
“I’m not sure.”
I picture rusted chains. A lone prison cell. Fire pokers. Keeping Up with the Kardashians on loop. “Should I … ask her?”
“No point to it. She’s already left,” he responds, tugging at my hips until he can rest his chin on the top of my head. His exhale ruffles my hair. “I didn’t like her being here.”
“Your worlds are crashing together.” I give in to the urge to touch him the way I want. I slip my palms up the back of his shirt, scratching lightly between his shoulders. He slumps against me.
This morning seems so very far away now, a touch of the reality we’ve been avoiding casting storm clouds over whatever it is we’re doing.
How many more times will I get to touch him like this? How many seconds can I stretch into hours before he’s gone?
I tuck my forehead against his collarbone and close my eyes. I know what my consequences are. I’ll forget all of this. Mistletoe ceilings and fathomless blue eyes that crinkle at the corners. His hands in my hair and this soft, tender feeling in my chest. I’ll forget that for one perfect holiday season, I was important to someone. That someone thought I was lovely.
Nolan’s hands tighten against the small of my back. Something like determination settles across his harsh features.
“I’m going to keep you safe,” he promises me.
I nod. My mouth quirks up at the corners and I scratch lightly at the back of his neck. Right where his hair starts to curl up.
I smile at him. “I know you will.”
His eyes flash as his magic pours out of him, white-capped seas and night- flecked skies instead of shimmering gold. It twists around my legs and slips over my shoulders, hugging around my middle. My hair rises around us like a curtain and his magic hops playfully through the strands, twisting the same way his fingers do. I laugh at the ticklish, bare-feet-in-the-grass feeling and Nolan’s expression tumbles from something serious to hopeful. Yearning.
It’s the last thing I see before it’s nothing but color and sound, the tug-tug- tug of time yanking us back once more.
