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“It’s Ireland,” he drawled. “I’m sure they’ve seen weirder things. You’ll be fine, Avery. Just knock on the door.”

I raised my fist and hesitated.

Why did I hesitate?

Tommy was perfectly lovely and with the way he spoke about Moira, I knew she’d be just as wonderful as her husband. Even from the outside, their house felt cozy. Loved. Warm. Lived in—in a way my home never was.

And maybe that’s what I didn’t want to see.

I didn’t want another reminder of the cold white marble in my parent’s kitchen. Not the microwaveable dinners I served myself on nights the nanny couldn’t come or meals ran out. Not the way I tucked myself into my own bed, book in my lap.

When I had no one, I still had my books.

I had my characters and their stories.

I had worlds. Multitudes. Everything at the tips of my fingers.

I lived alone in New York. There was only one coffee cup or teacup in my sink. One dinner plate. One set of silverware. Laughter rang out from inside and I squeezed my eyes shut.

Wolfe moved against my back, a hum I felt into my bones.

“You’re with me,” I whispered.

“Aye.” His breath came against my ear. “I’m with you.”

Odd to be bolstered by a ghost. Odd to feel like we had known each other for far longer and were simply just playing catch up. Odd that he already felt like my friend, like we’d done this a hundred times before.

I knocked, bracing myself for what awaited me on the other side.

Tommy swung the door open, cheeks flushed with warmth.

“Ay! I thought I heard you out here. Come in, come in.” He waved me inside and I went, heat from the fire washing over me.

The base of my throat ached, making it impossibly hard to breathe.

It was everything I thought it would be.

A tall stone fireplace took up the bulk of the living room, throwing a reddish hue over the worn throw rugs and furniture. There was a couch, coffee table, and two armchairs all directed toward the flames. Baubles and trinkets lined the mantle, as well as a few pictures of Tommy and Moira.

On the shelves to the right of the fire were more pictures in mismatched frames. I followed the progression from baby to toddler, from preteen to college, and then to weddings. An entire life captured on their shelves and by the way no dust seemed to cling to the frames, they were looked at often and well taken care of.

Moira’s basket of yarn and her current project took up a corner of the coffee table, the beginnings of a blanket starting to form.

“Moira! She’s here!”

I glanced up toward the kitchen, studying the dark cabinetry and countertops. Every part of this house was warm and cozy enough to nap in. Something that smelled like cinnamon wafted from the kitchen and then Moira was there, round face flushed with warmth from the stove.

Like her husband, she was beaming. Dark brown eyes dancing, lips quirked at the corners. She tsked at the sight of me, opened her arms, and hugged me. For a moment I was so shocked I could barely move. She smelled like bread, like fresh sea air and something soft that made me think of fresh-pressed linens.

Something I’d been missing for a long, long time.

Hesitantly, I hugged her back.

When she stepped away, she cupped my cheek. “Oh, you’re lovely. Look at you. Wind must be picking up. Come in and warm up. Tea?”

I opened and closed my mouth twice trying to find the right words to say.

“Tea would be lovely,” Wolfe agreed, crouching down to stare at the cat I’d missed on my first inspection of the room.