Chapter 4

NEIL

Neil sighed as his fingers tangled in his hair. How did she know just how to infuriate him? Neil was terrible in social situations, and her presence only seemed to make it worse for inexplicable reasons. He ran his hand over his forehead, feeling the whisper-thin scar beneath his fingers.

He hated to admit it, but all these years, Neil had unknowingly made publishing that much more difficult for her, and the thought made his hands clench into fists even now. It should have been fun, angering Penelope Skinner, but there was an itch at the back of his mind. She'd had the guts to speak the truth on that fateful day, and he'd had the nerve to say those things because he was too damn scared of the truth.

Damn it, Skinner was right. He was the Native author people could stomach, the one who wrote books the woke white feminists in the world could relate to. No one had ever questioned his right to be in that seat. Neil was Native American, and that's all that ever mattered—until Penelope Skinner opened her mouth. She came in with her hard truths, and no one had listened because she was a one-hit wonder, and Neil Storm was a household name.

But Neil had listened. Even though he'd tried to block out her voice, he'd heard every word she said. He had worked so hard to get here, but Penelope Skinner had been right about one thing, whether or not she'd said it outright: Neil Storm was a coward.

Neil breathed in the musk and mud and dampness of the castle. It smelled ancient. He pictured the old, torn wallpaper covering stone, tapestries hanging above fireplaces, large leather chairs, and long, food-adorned tables in cool stone rooms. When he closed his eyes, he painted lavish scenes of parties with nobles dressed in rich clothes. He imagined Scottish lairds and bards before the hearth, singing in Scottish Gaelic. What a place it must have been, he marveled.

Exhaling, he opened his eyes. It had always been easy for him to imagine, to pretend. It's why he was an author; it was second nature for him. But his creative well had run dry, and he was tired of the same stories he'd been writing for years, the very ones that publishing was expecting of him.

The ones Penelope Skinner hated so much.

Where had his tenaciousness gone in the years since his debut? What happened to that energy, to that Neil Storm?

A twig snapped from somewhere to his left, and Neil straightened in surprise, swiveling to get a better look. He didn't know what he expected, but Penelope Skinner stood, her expression twisted into a grimace as if she'd been caught. She was half-hidden behind a stone wall, hands buried in moss as she swayed in place, trying to decide whether to stay or to go.

"Sorry. I didn't see you. I was just going."

She turned to leave, but Neil stood, smoothing down his fleece. He pictured her crying, the disappointment creasing her brow, and the lines around her mouth as she'd frowned. They had their differences, but Neil hated knowing he made her cry.

"No, it's fine. I'll go."

Neither of them said anything. Neil watched her quietly, her eyes not quite meeting his. She folded and unfolded her arms, jaw clenched. Her glasses were askew, wisps of dark hair falling free of her braid, and altogether, Neil could admit there was something almost sweet about the woman.

In an "I'll-throw-a-book-at-you-when-I'm-mad" kind of way.

Damn, that look. Neil cleared his throat and motioned to the little piles of rocks surrounding them. "We could also just sit here quietly?" he offered instead.

She stared at him, her expression blank but for the scrunching of her nose in thought. Finally, she nodded curtly, finding her own pile of stone. They sat in silence for a few minutes, crouched in the heart of the ruins, not quite looking at one another. Although he resisted at first, Neil watched her in his periphery. Her nostrils flared as her hands fiddled absently with the zipper on her jacket. She angled her head back to get a good look at the turrets of the castle and the trees that bowed inside the stone limits.

God, things couldn't change between them. What had he been thinking? He wasn't certain there was anything he could do to combat this level of animosity. So, without another word, Neil stood and spun on his heel toward the entrance.

"Where are you going?" she called loudly, tripping after him.

"Shhhh," he hissed, rushing toward her and clamping a hand over her mouth. He froze, lips parting in surprise as he stared down at her. At large gray eyes above his hand, at the feel of his palm against her smooth skin. He shook his head and pulled his hand free. "Jesus, Skinner, we're not supposed to be in here."

Right then, a deep Scottish voice bellowed, "Yer no supposed to be there!" Neil shot her a look as if to say I told you so.

Skinner's eyes widened. "Where's Daniela and Laszlo?"

He shook his head and straightened. Clenching his teeth, he clasped her hand and pulled her after him in the opposite direction of the tear in the fence.

"No clue."

She wanted to protest, he could feel it in the way she fought his touch, but finally, she followed, quickening her short stride to match his.

He had no way of knowing if they'd get in trouble for wandering in some old ruins. From the looks of the place, Neil could only assume they didn't want people meandering around here for safety reasons. With the floors caving in and the earth so soft around the stone, it was no wonder.

"How are we supposed to get out?" Skinner panted as they stopped beside a strip of the fence. Her glasses fogged up, beads of sweat trickling down her forehead from running. More hair had come loose from her braid, dark wisps floating around her face and clinging to the sweat.

Damn her, she was distracting him. He motioned to the fence before them.

"Climb."

They stared down at their clasped hands before she slipped hers free, wiping her palm on her pants before grabbing hold of the fence and trying to haul herself up. Neil snorted and moved to climb after her. She slipped, almost kicking him in the face, and he yanked back just in time, Skinner nearly falling from the sudden movement. Neil tried not to laugh, his face heating as he pressed a fist to his lips. Grunting, she struggled to pull herself up, but she only looked like a beached dolphin, flapping over the top of the metal fence.

"Use your upper body strength!" he said, voice cracking with humor.

"I don't have any," she admitted, locked in place. Her face was beet red, her glasses tipping dangerously down her nose as she floundered.

"I apologize in advance," he warned as he stepped up to the fence. Neil had no choice but to shove Skinner's butt up and over. "Just throw your leg over," he instructed, using a shoulder and a hand to push. It felt strange, touching her again. Not wrong, just… strange. In a million years, he never could have imagined this scenario.

"I can't," she gasped.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Neil used the last of his strength to shove, one hand gripping her inner thigh, the touch eliciting a strange sound from her throat before she fell over and landed in a bush with a squeak. Neil decided it was best not to interpret the sound. Muscles aching, he pulled himself up and over with ease, landing beside her. He straightened his clothes, untangling twigs from his hair. He glared down at her as she stood, brushing off her pants.

"Thanks a lot." Her tone was a double-edged blade.

"She can be thankful," he said a little too cheerfully. He was trying so hard not to think of the way his fingers had skimmed her inner thigh, but his eyes betrayed him.

Skinner was curvy. Neil had never noticed before. She generally dressed in loose sweaters and skirts and dresses, comfortable fabric that did nothing to accentuate… well, anything, but her tight jeans were hugging curves he didn't know she had. Before he knew it, his eyes raked down her, skating across freckles, down to a full chest and fuller thighs. Neil straightened, meeting stormy gray eyes.

"What?" she snapped, cheeks reddening.

"Nothing."

His hand flexed, fingers straining to touch her again.

She rolled her eyes and brushed off her jacket angrily. And like that, the sight of her frustration pulled Neil back to the surface. Suddenly, everything was right in the world: Skinner with her condescending tone, and Neil with his annoyance rolling off in waves.

Skinner's cheeks were flushed, her eyes anywhere but on him. "What now?" she asked, craning her neck to peer down the way. She pushed her glasses up and tugged a branch from her braid.

"Where are ye?" the man called out, closer now.

Neil looked to Skinner. Right when he thought he'd avoided trouble, he found himself back in the thick of it. Would she hate him after this? What was he thinking—she already hated him. He might as well throw more fuel on the fire.

"Just trust me," he said, one hand going to her waist.

"What are you doing?" she asked, eyes wide as she backed up. If looks could kill.

"I'm not going to eat you."

"It certainly feels like it," she snapped as he bent down. She followed him with her eyes, her head angling back as he stepped closer. From his place, he could smell the coconut of her shampoo, the mint of her lip balm.

They were a hair's breadth from one another, their lips inches apart, noses brushing. His grip on her tightened as he stared down at her, and her eyes met his. He thought, for one wild moment, to kiss her. They were already so close; it would be so easy. It was the drunk giddiness, the strange electricity their banter brought out in him. Nothing more.

Right?

But there was that spark of an almost kiss, the heat in the moment before. Her lips parted, and his eyes followed the movement. God, she really was beautiful. They could hate each other all they wanted, but he couldn't deny the sliver of something . Neil swallowed hard, his hand trailing up to cup her cheek and slide into her braid. He itched to unravel it, to tug her head back and take her mouth with his.

If he could, Neil would stay in that instant for a fraction longer. He heard a groan from behind them, low and annoyed. For a moment, he thought it was himself. But when it sounded again, he knew instantly it wasn't. Neil pulled back slowly, fingers sliding over her waist and away, unable to meet Skinner's glower as he turned and blinked at the older man.

"Off with ye," he grumbled with a wave of his hand. Straightening and stepping back, Neil turned down the road, steps long and quick. Skinner ran to keep up with him, her short legs no match for his.

Damn it, he needed a moment to compose himself. His heart was beating a frantic rhythm against his ribs and other… parts of him were in all sorts of disarray. What the hell was wrong with him?

"Storm," she hissed.

"Skinner," he mimicked.

But he wouldn't look at her.

He couldn't look at her.

"What was the point of doing that? He found us, what, cuddling ?"

Neil didn't have an answer because why in the fuck had his first instinct been to pull her close? He didn't know why, and it was sending him spiraling.

Daniela and Laszlo were waiting for them beside the car, waving them over frantically as they rounded the castle. "Come on!" Daniela called out, cackling. "What took you two forever?"

"Nothing," they responded in unison.

Skinner slid into the front seat with ease, buckling in and crossing her arms over her chest before pulling out her phone again. As Neil crossed to the car, Laszlo touched his elbow, raising a brow. "What happened in those ruins?" his friend asked quietly, honey-brown eyes flicking to the woman in the front seat.

"Nothing." Maybe, if he kept telling himself it was nothing, it would stay that way.

"If you say so."

Neil climbed into the car and buckled in, hands tightening around the steering wheel. What had he been thinking, touching her like that? More so, why was he still thinking about the feeling of her so close to him? He ground his teeth together, eyes squeezed shut.

"Are we going?" Laszlo asked.

Jaw working, Neil opened his eyes and started the van before pulling out, the castle ruins disappearing behind them as they wove down the long, narrow road. The four of them were silent as they hurried through the coming darkness to their final destination, soft Scottish music filling the void.

Part of Neil wished he'd let Laszlo drive. The Highlands was more beautiful than he could have ever imagined, and he wanted nothing more than to pull over and look. The days were shorter here, the oranges of sunset cast over the rolling landscapes. Though the Scottish roads were winding, and the light drizzle turned to snow as night fell, there was something almost magnetic about the sights.

They zigzagged across the Highlands before dipping east toward the Cairngorms National Park. According to their map, this strange, looping path was the quickest way to get to the castle. The drive wasn't long, but it felt longer in the darkness, with few cars traveling into the Highlands as night descended.

Cities disappeared until towns sprang up in their place, and soon there were only farmlands and signs pointing to a zoo, reindeer, trails, and various campsites and inns. The national park was thick with trees, the temperatures dropping as the elevation rose. Neil cranked up the heat as they all shivered from the pressing cold, but it was no use when the snow began to fall. Long, strange patches of open ground and farmland popped up as they drove farther into the park, lit only by their headlights and the white snow. The area was all but deserted.

It wasn't until the sun had dipped down completely and the road grew slick with snow that, according to their GPS, they had arrived.

The road to the castle was nearly impossible to make out, the fresh snow a thick layer of powder, building up along the embankment. The road snaked down a tunnel of darkened trees, with nothing and no one out in sight. Neil slowed, the van's small, worn wheels struggling over the frozen ground.

"Everyone left a copy of their itinerary and the castle's address with someone, right?" Laszlo asked, eyes glued to the road, hands clamped around the back of Neil's seat as they went around another curve.

"Is it really only the four of us here?" Skinner asked shakily.

"Everyone else couldn't make it."

"Couldn't or wouldn't?" she said.

Neil peeked up at her. She blinked, expression blank and carefully guarded before dipping her chin.

"I feel like we're about to get murdered," Daniela whispered, hands pressed to the glass.

That about summed it up. They were veering into a tunnel in a country they weren't familiar with to spend a week at a castle that claimed to be haunted.

What could possibly go wrong?