Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Zane

A fter loading the pumpkins in the back of the Jeep, I open the door for Autumn and she climbs inside.

“You’ve got good taste,” she says, sliding her hand across the smooth leather seats with neon orange embroidery and accents.

“I think so,” I tell her as I climb in and crank the engine. I put it in reverse and we cruise the town before heading up the mountain blasting the oldies station. Rich Girl blares out and she laughs, singing along. Her hand is out the window and her hair blows in the breeze. Autumn is picture perfect, her laugh contagious.

“I haven’t been in a Jeep since high school,” she admits, looking in the back seat. “This one would be a lot easier to fool around in.”

I tilt my head at her. “It was like that?”

“It’s always the quiet ones,” she warns. “Always.”

“Mm. I’ll have to remember you said that.”

As I turn into the driveway, I scan in. The tall wrought-iron gate is exactly what I’d imagine would protect a haunted house.

She sits at the edge of her seat in awe as we slowly drive down the twisty road that leads to Hollow Manor. It’s only wide enough for one vehicle and is surrounded by trees that hang above us. With no lights lining the pavement every five feet, it would be spooky as Hell and I understand why the rumors about the manor began.

There is no one to prove the tale right or wrong, and with the distinct lack of life, the stories are more than plausible.

Hollow Manor has been a large, vacant house for over twenty years. Before I arrived, ghosts might as well have occupied it.

When I look farther ahead, the tree line fades and displays a sky full of twinkling stars. I drive to the back of the house and open her door. Autumn takes my hand, meeting my eyes before passing me. Fucking flirt.

I grab the pumpkins from the back and we move to the backyard where the lights are brightly lit, waiting for us, before I set them down. “Thirsty?”

“You have no idea,” she tells me and follows me into the kitchen.

She stands beside me as I open the fridge, glancing over my arm. “Oktoberfest.”

“You mentioned you liked it, so I got a case for us.”

“You were listening?”

“Of course. And I remember everything you’ve ever shared with me,” I say. “Maybe I’ll write a book.”

“Now that’s something I’d love to read,” she says, reaching inside and grabbing two bottles for us. She hands me one and we twist off the caps and flick them onto the counter, where they spin for a few moments before settling.

“Shall we toast?”

“To us.” She grins, repeating what I said at Bookers last night. Flirt.

“ Always to us,” I repeat, clinking the glass bottle necks and taking a sip. The light hint of pumpkin dances in my mouth and I swish the liquid around before swallowing.

“What does your refined palate say?”

“It’s great.” I chuckle, glancing at the carving tools for two that are waiting on the center island. It’s hard for me to believe she’s inside my house again, hanging out and comfortable, like she belongs in my space. She does.

“Sometimes you look at me like I’ll disappear.” Autumn takes a drink of her beer.

“Everyone does, eventually,” I state. “Don’t they?”

“Not me. I’m not going anywhere. When you go back to wherever it is you live, I’ll still be here. Hopefully not as a memory,” she says.

“New York and Washington,” I admit, wanting her to know where I am when I’m not here. “I split my time throughout the year depending on my mood.”

“I love New York,” she says. “At least I enjoyed the four years I lived there.”

“And somehow we never crossed paths.”

“Wrong time,” she tells me. “Had I met you then, I wouldn’t have given you a chance.”

“So, you’re saying I have a chance?”

She ignores my question.

“I was extremely focused. Nothing could distract me. Not even you.”

“Hm. I disagree.”

She rolls her eyes. “Cocky.”

I shrug then drink. “I want to know you for more than just a season. But I always fuck up things in relationships—friendships, romantic, even with my family. I’m almost convinced I’m the problem.”

“You’re not,” she says. “I don’t get that vibe from you.”

It’s a relief.

“I don’t trust my judgment because I’ve allowed horrible people access to me.”

She looks at me with sadness swimming in her eyes.

“Don’t feel sorry for me. I chose it.”

“Then why am I here?” Autumn asks.

“Because the universe keeps linking us together. It's like I can let my guard down around you without worrying that you’ll tell the world.”

“I’ll always keep your secrets,” she offers, not moving away from me. “No matter what happens.”

“Can I take that to the bank?”

“You can take it to the grave,” she says. “And I never break my promises, that's why I don’t give IOUs. Except for you.”

The eye contact grows too intense, and I have to glance away from her because I’m five seconds from capturing her lips with mine. I change the subject. “So, pumpkin queen, ready to carve?”

“Ooh, do you have a large mixing bowl? We can throw the guts inside, then prep the seeds to cook afterward.”

I open cabinets, searching until I find the one that’s painted like a jack-o'-lantern. It takes me back to carving pumpkins with my mom and sister all those years ago.

“There you are,” I say, pulling it out and setting it on the counter in front of Autumn.

She stops and stares at it. “We had the same bowl when I was a kid, over twenty years ago. They sold them in the home goods store in town. Was that left behind from the family that used to live here?”

“I guess you could say that.”

A gasp escapes her. “It could be cursed.”

“Stop.” I try hard not to laugh because she’s serious, but I fail miserably. “Trust me when I say, if there are any ghosts in this house, they’re friendly.”

She narrows her eyes, not convinced.

I cup my hands around my mouth and yell, “This is a message to all the spirits haunting Hollow Manor!”

My voice bounces off the high walls.

“No.” Autumn immediately shakes her head. “Don’t! You clearly haven't watched enough horror movies.”

“If you’re here, give us a sign!” I glance at her with a snicker. “Should I say Beetlejuice three times?”

Then, the light in the living room above the mantle clicks on and I freeze.

“What have you done?” Autumn asks and I can tell she’s freaked out. “Are you trying to scare me?”

I have to admit, it’s weird as fuck.

“No. I swear. I didn’t plan that.” The smile fades from my face.

“Nope. I’m not doing this. We’re leaving,” she singsongs and grabs my hand, guiding me toward the hallway that leads to the backyard.

I pull her to me and place my hands on her shoulders and squeeze, forcing her to look into my eyes.

I can’t allow this to continue on. “My family has always owned this house and this property. My mother designed every square inch and had it custom-built to her specifications over thirty years ago.”

“But—”

“Listen,” I say, keeping my voice soft. “We came here one spooky season through Christmas after my mom found out she had stage four cancer. She wanted us to create memories in Cozy Creek before sharing the news with us. After the new year when we returned to the city, she told us her diagnosis. No one was gruesomely murdered. No one died in this house.

After my mother passed away, I tried to forget this place existed. When I turned eighteen, I inherited the house, but I had no reason to come back. It’s stayed vacant until I returned at the beginning of September. Nothing bad ever happened within these walls. It was actually one of the few happy places I had as a kid. I promise.”

Autumn covers her mouth and her brows crease. “Oh. I’m very sorry. I was disrespectful. I had no idea. Zane, I’m incredibly sorry about your mom. I?—”

I smile and lift her chin. “No, please don’t apologize. My mother would’ve weirdly loved to know her dream house became the center of a fictional story about murders and it being haunted with ghosts. Even if it’s unrealistic.” I chuckle, glancing at the frames that are shining in the light as her feet stay planted in the kitchen. “She was a witchy hippy who adored summer nights, fall, and growing flowers.”

“She sounds like sunshine.”

“Mom was stardust. Sparkly and beautiful, but gone too soon,” I say with a sad smile, walking past Autumn. “Come on.”

She doesn’t budge.

“Do you trust me?” There is a reason this happened and I want to find out what that reason is. Even though I know I’ve avoided these photos since I arrived, it’s time to face them right now.

I glance back at Autumn, hold out my hand, and nod my head. While she takes it, she’s hesitant.

“Don’t you find this strange?” she asks.

“I do.” I look around, noticing the living room is pitch dark other than the light from the kitchen leaking onto the floor, and the one above the mantel. None of it makes sense. “It’s my mom, or maybe there’s an electrical issue and it’s a pure coincidence.”

“Nothing is ever coincidental,” Autumn says, her eyes scanning over the pictures. She spots one, and it’s me and my sister posing at the patch with my mom.

“Wait. I think I met you when I was ten,” she whispers. “How is that possible?”

“Sometimes it’s as simple as being in the right place at the right time,” I tell her, pulling the frame down and handing it to her.

“What’s your sister’s name? We hung out an entire day and got our faces painted with butterflies. I have a picture somewhere.”

A lot has happened since then and the memories are too fuzzy. “When we were kids, we used fake names to hide our identities. She went by Lucy.”

“Yes. Lucy ,” she whispers with a grin. “That was it. I couldn’t remember for the longest time. And you?”

“I’ve always answered to Alexander and Zane.”

“Do you have a preference?” she asks, and I adore how respectful she is. No one has ever asked me before.

“It’s whatever you prefer. Depending on the setting, people call me different things.” I kinda like hearing my first name come from her lips though.

“Interchangeable. I like that.” She continues looking at the photographs. “This was your mother?”

Mom stands outside of the greenhouse with dirt on her overalls and a pair of cutting shears in one hand and some flowers in the other.

“Zane, she’s holding coneflowers,” Autumn whispers. “Did they come from her garden?”

“Yes. They were her favorites. I thought you’d like them too.”

“Wow. That means a lot to me,” she says, her voice cracking, setting the picture back down. “She’s beautiful. You have her eyes and smile.”

“Thank you. It’s been a long time since someone told me that,” I say, focusing on the photo as the letter comes to mind. “My mom is why I came back to Hollow Manor. She always said the mountains could heal anything. I came to find out if it was true.”

My words get choked in my throat. Autumn carefully wraps her arms around me and I don’t know how to react at first.

“What's this for?” I ask, allowing myself to relax.

“Because you looked like you needed it.”

“Thank you.” I hold her tighter, not sure if she knew I was building mental walls. When I inhale the sweet scent of her shampoo and close my eyes, the light clicks off.

“Friendly ghosts,” she whispers, burying her head into my chest with a laugh. “I’m still scared.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” I tell her, then lead her back to the kitchen. I shove the carving tools and some markers into the mixing bowl, then we wash our hands and return to the backyard.

As she moves to the picnic table covered with newspaper, I start the fire in the pit that I prepared for tonight. The wood immediately catches and cracks and pops into the night.

The string lights cast a warm glow against the soft, stubby grass. Autumn smooths her hand over the top of the table. “I’m starting to believe you really are a pro.”

“Time will tell,” I say, sitting across from her. I hand her a carving knife and a scoop.

She removes the cap to the marker and begins drawing. I try to steal a peek of her design but she’s fast and twists it so I can’t.

I pick up my beer, taking a swig. “Why’d you and Sebastian break up?”

I notice she tenses.

“You don’t have to talk about it right now but one day I want to know.”

“Oh, it’s fine. He came up with this wild idea that we both wanted to see other people. And told our friends that the breakup was a mutual agreement.”

“Was it?”

She sarcastically laughs. “What do you think?”

“I’ll have him fired,” I state. “Tomorrow.”

She stops drawing and glances at me. “He’s one of the greatest instructors in the country.”

“And?”

“A lot of business is brought to the resort because people want to ski with him.”

I blink a few more times. “There are other celebrity snowboarders I can hire who are ten times better with less of an attitude. He’s extremely replaceable.”

“No. No.” She reaches forward. “The best revenge is him thinking he lost me forever.”

“Would you take him back?”

“Honestly?” She hesitates. “No. And what about you?”

“I don’t give second chances once things are really over. It’s a rule of mine. It ends for a reason.”

“Who was she?”

“Celine Madison.” I meet her eyes.

“The supermodel ,” she deadpans.

“You’ve heard of her , but not me?” I ask. Celine was obsessed with the spotlight; it’s why she got with me. To use my connections to further her career. Good for her, it worked. “Actually, that checks out.”

Autumn grows quiet.

“Why are you putting up walls?”

She finishes drawing then carves the heart shape at the top of her pumpkin. She removes it, shoves the scoop inside, and starts scraping. “Not one person in your social circle will believe I’m her replacement. Get real.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Trust me when I say everyone on that island will want to know who you are while simultaneously trying to steal you from me.”

A small smile plays on her lips.

“I wish I could show you what the rest of the world sees. If you really knew how goddamn gorgeous you are, you wouldn’t say shit like that.”

She swallows hard. “It doesn’t seem plausible. Why would you choose me when you can literally have anyone?”

“You are anyone. Point?”

With one swift movement, she flips her hair over one shoulder and carefully follows along the outside of her line. I can’t stop staring as she steals my breath away.

“You have nothing to worry about,” I assure her. “Nothing at all.”

She grins, plopping the pulp into the bowl. “I’ll trust that you know your type more than I do.”

I draw a circle around the stem then cut it out, wondering if I have a type. If I do, what’s the similarity all of them have had? Autumn isn’t like anyone I’ve ever met.

“This is my favorite part.” She stands, watching me wiggle it off. Seeds and guts hang down and she peeks inside.

I think about old memories, and how the last time I did this I was fifteen. I scrape the sides then throw the goop into the bowl with Autumn’s.

“Have you ever made homemade pumpkin pie?” I ask.

“All the time. My gran has this world-famous recipe,” she explains. “Won a few state fairs down in Texas.”

“Really?”

“We should’ve bought an extra one. Actually, we can use mine.”

“No, no. I’ll take a rain check. You think I’ll allow you to quit our contest so easily?”

Her head falls back on her shoulders and she laughs. “I was forfeiting for pie. It’s what any respectable human would do!”

“We’ll have plenty of time,” I tell her. “And I’ll make you my mother’s famous oatmeal raisin cookies.”

“Deal.”

Once the pumpkins are emptied, Autumn picks up the bowl. “Let’s prep these, then we’ll come back and finish.”

I stand and open the door for her, then follow her to the kitchen where she places the pumpkin guts in the sink. After it’s full of water, seeds float to the top.

“This is part of the process?”

“Yep. Make it easier to clean the gunk off. Do you have a colander?”

“Somewhere,” I say, opening the cabinets again. Eventually I’ll know where everything is in this house and I won’t feel like a stranger living here. I find it in the back then rinse it before handing it to her.

“We need a baking sheet.” She turns the oven on 350 degrees and we work around each other as she strains and dries the seeds, then places them back in the bowl as she seasons them. I take a step back, out of her way, watching her float in my space. After adding olive oil and mixing it with a wooden spoon, she’s laying them flat on the tray.

“Now what?”

“We drink. Fifteen minutes, turning them every five. When they’re finished, we’ll have a snack while I kick your ass at carving a pumpkin.”

“Ah, well if that's what we're supposed to do then I have the perfect beverage.” I move to the liquor cabinet and grab the Clase Azul and set it on the counter.

She chews on the corner of her lip. “What is it?”

“Tequila.”

“Ah, my kryptonite,” she says.

“Another thing we have in common. Damn.”