Page 90 of Widow’s Walk

They sat quietly for a moment, the hum of crickets rising from the grass.

“Then there’s the Ghost Room,” Kelsey said suddenly, bright again. “The fog machines, some ghost hunting tools, EMF readers, and other gadgets. A looping reel of the show’s footage. Did Mason or Shannon ever respond to your invitation?”

Amy shook her head. “No. It was a long shot. But I still sent it—olive branch and all.”

“You’re kinder than I’d be,” Kelsey murmured.

Amy only shrugged. “He and his show are part of the story. It’s fair to include him. Plus, I think people would go nuts if he were there. More publicity.”

They lingered as the sky went indigo, conversation flowing between logistics and laughter. Possibilities surged in their minds. Bookings and awareness were going to be her bread and butter from this; the community foundation and the historical society non-profits would benefit from the direct donations.

“This feels right,” Kaitlin said finally, hugging a throw pillow to her chest. “Like everything’s clicking into place.”

“It does,” Amy admitted. She exhaled, slow and steady. “I just hope the numbers follow the feeling.”

“They will,” Kelsey said firmly. “If just a couple of Mac’s invites make a donation, you’ll meet the targets. This is more exciting and original than any fundraiser I’ve gone to with Mac.”

Amy smiled, warmth curling through her chest. Below them, the tide shifted with a steady hush.

For every solved detail, another small uncertainty lingered—bookings were still slower than she wanted, the network hadn’t responded, and her final invoices to Sully were due. But surrounded by her friends, with wine between them and sea air turning cool, the doubt drifted away on the sea breeze.

Chapter 32

Sully hadn’t thought the old mirror in Amy’s bedroom could hold that much light. Yet there she stood in front of it, the gold of late afternoon tracing her shoulders and the lace of her gown catching threads of fire.

She turned slightly, adjusting the ribbons at her back. The corset tightened her small waist and lifted everything above it in a way that stopped his brain dead for a moment.

He told himself to look away, to focus on anything else—the boots he’d been trying to lace, the fake beard glue setting crooked on his chin—but his eyes kept drifting back.

“Careful,” he said finally, voice rougher than intended. “You’re likely to start a riot before the guests even park their cars.”

Amy looked over her shoulder with a smile. “Corsets are wasted on modest men, Captain.”

He tipped an imaginary hat. “Good thing there’s no modest men here, Miss Verity.”

Then he attempted his pirate growl, low and dramatic. “Arrr—”

She lost it immediately, laughter spilled across the room. “You sound like a sea lion.”

Sully grinned, catching the fake mustache sliding loose at one end. “Close enough. They’re both predators of the deep.”

When she turned around, amusement still bright in her eyes, he reached for her waist without quite meaning to, adjusting one of the loose ribbons. She smelled of powder and lavender, which made his stomach tighten.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she whispered.

“Impossible,” he murmured.

Her cheeks colored—whether from the corset or his tone, he couldn’t tell—and she swatted playfully at his chest. “We’re going to be late.”

“I’m only warming up my character.”

“Lecherous?”

“Authenticity matters,” he said, and drew her close for a quick kiss before the laughter caught them both again.

“I still can’t believe Garrett offered to do a special basement tour through where he had his ‘experience.’” Amy said, stepping away from him.

“Oh, he’s all in. He’s bringing his own ghost-hunting gadgets and everything.”