Page 62 of Jingle Spells

“We’re checking the inn,” Jasper explained. “There’s a chance she might still be here somewhere.”

“Maya, Elijah.” Ruth turned to her grandchildren with the authority only a grandmother can wield. “Go get your parents and uncles. Tell them we need everyone checking the grounds outside. Quickly now. I’ll take the south wing,” Ruth said. “Daniel and Linda will organize search parties.”

“Thank you,” Delilah managed.

As Ruth hurried away, Delilah wilted against the wall. Something about talking to Ruth made the whole thing seem much too real. The momentum that had been carrying her along suddenly faltered. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“We’ll find your mother, I’m sure of it.” Jasper stood beside her, close but not touching. He wanted to put his arms around her, tell her everything would be okay. But he wasn’t certain that would be welcome . . . Hell, he wasn’t sure any of it was true.

“That’s what everyone keeps saying,” Delilah said, a bitter edge creeping into her voice. “But what if we don’t? What if she’s just . . . gone? Like Papa?”

The rawness in her voice made Jasper ache. He’d been in Oak Haven for what felt like both minutes and years, but Delilah’s pain reached through all the confusion and disorientation, anchoring him to something real and immediate.

“Your father,” he said carefully. “Wait . . . is he . . . That’s why you don’t like Christmas. You said he loved it.”

Delilah nodded, wrapping her arms around herself. “He brought Christmas to Oak Haven. Before him, it was all solstice celebrations and Saturnalia. But Papa couldn’t imagine a winter without Christmas. After he died . . .” Her voice caught. “Everything just reminded me of him. Every decoration, every song, every tradition. It was unbearable.”

“And now your mother . . .”

“I can’t lose her too, Jasper.” The confession emerged as barely a whisper. “I don’t think I’d survive it. None of us would.”

Jasper moved before he could overthink it, closing the distance between them. His hands found her shoulders, steadying her. “Listen to me. I’m new here, I know. Kelly Melrose is clearly a formidable woman. Not someone to be underestimated. And those magicians? They made a critical mistake.”

“What’s that?” Delilah asked, looking up at him.

“They left her daughters behind. You and Scarlett are already pretty formidable. I have to assume that once you’ve added your third sister into the mix, you’re unstoppable.”

A ghost of a smile touched Delilah’s lips. “You’re very convincing for someone who’s only known me for a day. Or less.”

“Or more,” he whispered sweetly. “At the moment? It feels like more.” Before he could stop himself, he was reaching out to stroke her cheek. This was unlike him, he knew, and utterly wrong. But he couldn’t help himself; it was as if his hand belonged to some other, far less cautious man. To his shock, Delilah did not move away. She closed her eyes and leaned her cheek into his hand, like a lost kitten in need of petting.

Jasper’s heart raced, sensing the sudden shift between them. He leaned into her, drawn by her marvelous scent and a deep desire he’d been trying so hard to push away. This was wrong. Her mother was missing, and he was only here by bizarre accident. Yet every atom of him ached for this connection, this brief escape from the madness around them.

“Jasper . . .” Delilah opened her eyes and tilted her chin upwards, her gaze locking on his. “Please kiss me.”

Unable to deny her or himself, Jasper obliged. His lips met hers in a hungry, desperate kiss. Hands entangling in each other’s hair, they clung to each other as if they could somehow stave off the world by sheer force of will.

Her lips were impossibly soft, her hands warm as they slid inside his jacket and up his back. Heat bloomed through his whole body and he deepened the kiss, tasting the sweetness of her mouth as her body leaned against his. He kissed her more deeply, and all the longing he’d felt for her suddenly spilled out beyond his control.

With a groan, Jasper lifted her onto the nearest piece of furniture—a solid oak writing desk that complained only mildly under the weight—never breaking the kiss. A lamp rocked precariously but neither of them cared. Their attention was consumed by each other. Delilah’s hands clenched Jasper’s chest, her body molding to his like a puzzle piece that had found its match at long last.

Caught in this swell, it was easy to believe that nothing else mattered. Not a missing mother, not a town under siege, not even their own highly tenuous connection to each other. But their sanctuary couldn’t last forever. Reality crashed back in as voices echoed from downstairs. People calling out, organizing search teams. Jasper and Delilah broke apart, each retreating to the opposite side of the hallway.

“We shouldn’t have done that,” she declared. “Not with everything that’s happening.”

“No . . . no, of course not. We shouldn’t have.” But then he looked at Delilah. Her cheeks were flushed, the collar of her dress was pulled slightly to one side, and her chic hairdo was now a guilty-looking mess. And in that moment, he knew he never wanted to look at anyone else.

He also knew he couldn’t lie to her. “I hope we do it again, though.”

A small laugh escaped her, surprising them both. “I’ll consider it.” Then air seemed to shift again, and determination and focus returned to her voice. “We should check the attic. It’s the last place in the inn we haven’t looked.”

The attic was accessed via a narrow staircase at the end of the third-floor hallway. The door creaked ominously as Delilah pushed it open, revealing a steep ascent into darkness.

“I don’t suppose witches have invented electric lighting for their attics?” Jasper asked, peering up into the gloom.

“We’re not big on changing lightbulbs when a simple illumination spell will—” Delilah caught herself, remembering. “Right. No magic until after Saturnalia. There should be a switch somewhere . . .”

After some fumbling along the wall, light flooded the stairwell. They climbed in silence, emerging into a vast space beneath the inn’s sloped roof. Unlike the pristine organization of the rest of the hotel, the attic was a labyrinth of family history: old trunks, stacked furniture draped in sheets, boxes of books, and paintings leaned against the walls.