I cock my head. “I sense a story.”
He opens his mouth like he’s about to tell me, then Belinda pipes in softly, “Is everything okay with your Aunt Elaine? I ran into her last week at the pet store and she seemed…” Belinda gives Penn a wobbly, almost sympathetic smile as she tries to come up with the right word, Finally, she settles with, “The same.”
Meaning—still out of her festive little mind.
He exhales sharply, and there it is, that flicker of something unspoken. A heaviness behind the laugh. Something’s going on at home, something deeper than his aunt just being her usual… unconventional self. And just like that, my heart does that annoying pinch again.
Because for all Penn’s swagger and smirking charm, he’s never had it easy. No real family to speak of, outside of Aunt Elaine, the ‘uncles’ she’s hooked up with, and her merry band of feral ferrets. And no one should be alone during the holidays. Not even a guy who once stood by while I was publicly annihilated at the tree lighting.
Still. Doesn’t everyone deserve to feel like they belong?
I have a few loved ones I could lend him. Temporarily. Or maybe permanently. Uncle Jack has been a bit too touchy feely lately.
“Let’s just say,” he starts flatly, “Elaine turned my old bedroom into a cat sanctuary. I was there for five minutes. Got mauled, bitten, and I think…” He lowers his voice, eyes darting around as if the walls might be listening, “…I think one is possessed.”
“Possessed?” Belinda chokes back a laugh, biting her lip as if she’s trying to stay professional.
Penn’s throat works around the word like it doesn’t sit right. “I think Muffin?—”
“Muffin?” I blurt, grinning. There’s just something about this broad-shouldered NHL enforcer whispering about a cat named Muffin that breaks me. “Are we still talking about a cat here?”
“Yeah. The tabby.” He stares at me like I’m the odd one, which is rich coming from a guy who thinks a rescue cat is possessed.
“Anyway,” he continues, and leans in like we’re trading ghost stories around the campfire, “I think it’s possessed by the spirit of Aunt Elaine’s late husband, Earl.”
He mock-shudders, and the seriousness in his voice just makes it funnier.
“Oh?” I arch a brow. “Tell me, is Muffin wearing flannel now?”
His eyes narrow, all humor gone from those baby blues. Maybe I’m tired. Or maybe it’s his scent—clean, cold air and cedar—or the way the firelight flickers across his cheekbones, but I stare back, unable to look away, even if ‘crazy’ clearly runs in his family.
“No. But he’s been watching curling reruns. The only person I ever knew who liked curling was Earl.”
“Well then, obviously, it’s Earl.” I nod solemnly.
Just then, Penn’s head snaps toward a darkened hallway. “What was that?” he whispers.
I follow his gaze and search the hall. “I didn’t see anything.”
“You don’t think Muffin followed me here, do you?”
“I mean, I didn’t notice a flannel-wearing cat tailing you through the door.”
The phone rings behind us, and Belinda turns to answer it, leaving us staring at one another.
“I told you it wasn’t wearing flannel…” he mutters, shaking his head like I’m the one being ridiculous. Yeah, I’m the ridiculous one. He thinks a cat is possessed by his late uncle Earl. Then, his voice softens. “You remember Earl, don’t you?”
I nod, my throat tightening a little. “Elaine’s sixth and final husband. He came into the picture around your junior year, right?”
“Yeah. He hated me.”
“I remember that.” What I don’t say is how I remember Penn coming to school with stress in his eyes and extra weight on his shoulders. How I knew Earl never thought the money Elaine spent on Penn’s hockey had any value. It only had worth when it came in the form of a six-pack.
“So, with the cats and the ghost of Earl judging my life choices through Muffin’s eyes… I can’t stay there.”
“Poor thing,” I murmur. My tone is light, teasing. But something inside me aches a little. I spread my arms wide, gesturing to the cozy chaos of the inn, where guests in scarves and puffy coats bustle past, mugs of cocoa in hand. “And now you’re homeless. During the most magical time of year.” I arch a brow. “What would Santa say?”
He grits his teeth and eyes me carefully, like he’s scanning for signs. Trying to gauge whether the incident made it all the way to Snowberry Falls.