Page 2 of Haunted Ever After

“Maybe I will!” she said to his back as he bagged a slice of banana bread from the pastry case. She grabbed a pen from the cup in front of her and flipped the business card over. “What’s your name?”

“Nick.” He tossed the banana bread onto the counter next to her iced latte. “Nick Royer.”

Well. Shit.

Cassie looked down at her order. The iced latte was in a plastic cup, lid firmly on and a wrapped straw on top. The banana bread was in a little paper bag. He’d prepared her order to go without asking. He didn’t want her there any more than she wanted to be there.

She looked back up at Nick. His arms were folded across his chest, biceps straining against the sleeves of his gray T-shirt. His mouth was set in a thin line, and his warm blue eyes now looked stone-cold. “That’ll be seven fifty.”

Her new life in her new town was off to a fantastic start.

Cassie reached for her drink while he ran her card, punching the straw in and taking a sip. She closed her eyes with a grateful sigh as caffeine sped through her bloodstream and her shoulders relaxed. The drink was perfect: just the right amount of hazelnut syrup, not too sweet, with enough bitter espresso to wake up her senses. This dickhead made a fantastic iced latte, which was unfortunate. She was going to have to keep coming back here, wasn’t she?

She blinked her eyes open to see said dickhead holding her card out toward her. “Anything else?” The question was automatic; she was supposed to shake her head, take her stuff, and get the hell out.

But inspiration struck. “You don’t happen to know a good electrician, do you?”

Nick stopped short, blinked at what had to be an unexpected question. “A what?”

“Electrician. Handyman. Someone who can tell me why half the outlets in the house don’t seem to work.”

He shook his head, baffled. “Can’t you just message the owner?”

“The what?” Now it was Cassie’s turn to be baffled.

“The owner,” he repeated with exaggerated patience. This guy really didn’t like her. “Through the app or whatever. You don’t fix stuff yourself in a vacation rental. That’s the owner’s responsibility.”

“I am the owner. It’s my house. Wait.” A horrible thought occurred to Cassie. “You think I’m a tourist?”

“Well, yeah.” He rubbed at the back of his neck as his brow furrowed. “You have the look.”

“The look?” She glanced down at herself. She’d been in such a hurry this morning that she’d thrown on the first thing she could find: denim cutoffs and the Give me the Oxford comma or give me death T-shirt she’d gotten from her Secret Santa at work last year. Her hair was up in a bun because styling it had been out of the question. At least she was wearing her nicer flip-flops.

“Sure,” Nick said. “Lots of tourists come in here with their laptops, get some work done while they’re on vacation.” He waved a hand toward her laptop bag. “So I just figured…”

Cassie crossed her arms over her chest; she couldn’t believe this. This was worse than not getting carded at the liquor store. Worse than being called ma’am. “I haven’t lived in Florida for my entire life to be called a tourist.”

A laugh came out of Nick’s chest like a bark, an involuntary reaction that seemed to startle even himself. “Point taken. Sorry about that.” That almost-twitch thing his mouth had been doing gave way to an actual smile, crooked and even a little bit apologetic. Something in the air shifted between them, the animosity from the past few minutes dissolving like sugar in the rain.

That shift made her take a risk. “Any chance we can start over? I was caffeine deprived before, and this is the best coffee I’ve had in a long time.” She stuck her hand across the counter. “I’m Cassie.”

“Nick.” His hand was warm around hers, his handshake a solid grip. “And I think I can help you out with that handyman thing. Here…”

Nick came out from behind the counter, walking—no, sauntering—toward the front door. Clearly this café was his domain, and he was at home here. What must that be like? To be at home somewhere? Cassie had a home, technically, but she didn’t feel at home there. Not yet.

He stopped at the bulletin board to the left of the door that she must have rushed right by when she’d come in. It was covered in so many business cards and flyers that the cork of the board had practically disappeared. Some of the cards were yellowed with age, while others looked like they’d just been pinned there yesterday. Nick scanned the board, his hands resting on his slim hips, before finally selecting one of the older cards.

“Here you go.” He stuck the pushpin back in the board and handed her the card. “Give Buster a call. If he can’t fix it, it can’t be fixed.”

“Is that his slogan?” And was that his real name? She examined the card, and sure enough: Buster Bradshaw, with a little graphic of a hammer and a phone number. Minimalist, this guy. She was honestly surprised not to see a little ghost peeking out from behind the hammer.

Nick chuckled. “It should be. So which house is yours, anyway?”

Cassie turned and peered out the window, pointing down the street. “Down that way a little. Yellow house, where the street bends to the right toward the pier?”

“Wait.” Nick’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead. “You’re in the Hawkins House?”

“The what?” That name meant nothing to her. The seller had been a nebulous LLC, probably a flipper, and hadn’t been named Hawkins. “No. It’s the Rutherford house now.” She tapped her own chest. “As of nine days ago anyway.”

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