Page 7

CHAPTER 6

S ebastian had absolutely no good reason to return to The Red Lion.

None whatsoever. The business case for acquisition stood perfectly well on its own merits. His research team had already identified multiple structural weaknesses that would make renovation prohibitively expensive. Legal had outlined at least three potential challenges to any heritage listing application. From a purely professional standpoint, there was no justification for him to be standing outside the pub’s weathered front door at seven o’clock on a Thursday evening, staring at his own reflection in windows that had probably been installed before his grandfather was born.

And yet—here he was, like some sort of well-dressed stalker with a property development obsession.

He’d spent the better part of an hour trying to convince himself this visit was about Harry Crighton’s unsettling phone call, or perhaps a chance to observe the archaeological team’s progress firsthand, or maybe just professional due diligence in checking for any new factors that might impact the acquisition timeline.

None of those perfectly reasonable explanations could account for why he’d changed his tie twice before leaving his penthouse, or why he’d found himself checking his reflection in three different mirrors, or why he’d actually debated whether his usual cologne was too obvious.

He was acting like a teenager preparing for his first date, which was both ridiculous and deeply concerning.

Sebastian straightened his shoulders and pushed open the door, the small brass bell chiming overhead with that clear, welcoming tone that somehow managed to sound like an invitation and a challenge simultaneously. The pub was caught in that brief lull between the after-work crowd and the dinner rush—a handful of regulars clustered near the front windows, murmuring companionably over their pints while golden sunlight slanted through the stained glass, scattering pools of amber and ruby across the worn floorboards.

Tessa stood behind the bar, methodically drying a pint glass with movements that were both efficient and oddly hypnotic. She glanced up as he approached—and went completely still, like a deer that had suddenly noticed a predator in the underbrush.

“Mr. Westfield,” she said, setting the glass down with deliberate care. Her voice carried that particular blend of polite professionalism and barely concealed wariness that he was beginning to recognize as her default setting for dealing with unwelcome complications. “Back so soon? I don’t recall scheduling a follow-up meeting.”

“Sebastian,” he corrected, approaching the bar with what he hoped looked like casual confidence rather than nervous determination. “And no—we didn’t schedule anything. Call this an informal check-in.”

Her eyebrow lifted in an expression that managed to convey skepticism, amusement, and mild irritation all at once. “A check- in on what, exactly? The part where you demolish my pub and turn it into decorative atrium elements?”

Despite everything—the business complications, the supernatural nonsense, the way she seemed determined to make every conversation feel like a verbal sparring match—Sebastian found himself smiling. Days of carefully choreographed boardroom discussions and diplomatic investor meetings had left him genuinely craving her unfiltered honesty, even when it was directed at dismantling his professional reputation.

“I was hoping we might be able to start over,” he said, settling onto one of the bar stools with the careful movements of someone who wasn’t entirely sure of his welcome. “Fewer accusations about corporate villainy. More actual listening to each other’s perspectives.”

She studied his face for a long moment, as if trying to determine whether he was being sincere or simply employing a more sophisticated manipulation strategy.

“Alright,” she said finally, her posture relaxing just enough to suggest cautious willingness to engage. “What are you drinking?”

“Surprise me,” he replied, curious to see what choice would reveal her opinion of him.

Without hesitation, she moved to a tap with a dark wooden handle worn smooth by decades of use. “Porter,” she announced, beginning to pour with the sort of practiced precision that spoke of years behind the bar. “Brewed in Southwark since 1823, survived both World Wars and three separate attempts at corporate buyouts.”

Sebastian watched her work—steady hands, perfect foam head, the unconscious grace of someone who’d found their rhythm in this particular space. When she slid the pint across the polished wood, their fingers brushed briefly during the transfer. The contact sent an unexpected jolt up his arm, and he found himself taking just a moment too long to pull his hand away.

The beer was genuinely excellent—rich, complex, with the sort of depth that only came from traditional brewing methods and careful attention to craft.

“That’s remarkable,” he said, and meant it.

“History in a glass,” Tessa replied, and there was definite pride threading through her voice now. “The brewery has survived economic recessions, two world wars, and Margaret Thatcher’s attempts to modernize everything into submission. Though I imagine your development firm would rather replace it with luxury loft conversions and artisanal coffee shops.”

And there they were, right back on familiar adversarial ground.

“I didn’t come here to debate urban development philosophy,” Sebastian said, setting his glass down carefully. “Or to argue about zoning regulations.”

“Then why did you come?” The question was direct, uncompromising, delivered with the sort of unflinching eye contact that suggested she genuinely wanted an answer rather than another deflection.

It disarmed him completely. Tessa Lawson had an unnerving talent for cutting straight through his carefully prepared responses and demanding actual honesty, which was both refreshing and terrifying.

“I’ve been thinking about him,” Sebastian admitted, surprised by his own candor. “The man you found in the hidden chamber. The whole situation.”

Her posture shifted subtly—not defensive, exactly, but alert in the way of someone who’d learned to be cautious about revealing too much too quickly. “Have you?”

“It’s proving rather difficult to forget,” Sebastian said, tracing the rim of his glass as he chose his words carefully. “Harry Crighton called me yesterday,” Sebastian said. “About the pub. About you. And about ghosts.”

Tessa raised an eyebrow. “Harry called you?”

“Yes. Said something about spirits and energy. Also—he claims he’s a ghost.”

“ Used to be,” she said, utterly deadpan. “He used to be a ghost. Technically.”

Sebastian stared at her, unsure if she was joking. Her expression gave nothing away.

“Culloden Moor,” she added, as if that explained anything. “He says he was stuck there for centuries. Got released, or rescued, or reincarnated—depends on how much Scotch he’s had. Alice too. She was supposedly murdered in the 1700s and buried in a garden.”

He blinked. “And you believe them?”

Tessa gave a short laugh. “I believe in ghosts. This building’s full of odd energy. But ghosts coming back to life and chatting up billionaires?” She shook her head. “That part, not so much.”

Sebastian didn’t mean to smile—but it slipped out anyway.

There was something thoroughly entertaining about the way she said it—like she’d drawn a careful boundary line in the sand between reasonable supernatural occurrences and completely absurd ghost resurrection . As if that distinction made her a practical woman.

“Good to know your belief system has limits,” he said.

She gave a mock-serious nod. “I’m nothing if not discerning.”

He took another sip of his beer, trying not to laugh. Of all the things he’d expected from this visit, being charmed by a sarcastic bartender with a working ghost scale wasn’t one of them.

Sebastian leaned in, curious despite himself. “Harry also mentioned his sons. The twins…”

“Malcolm and Ewan?” Her tone shifted instantly—lighter amusement giving way to concern.

He nodded. “They’ve been talking about a ‘sad man in the corner.’ Someone only they can see.”

Tessa’s fingers paused mid-motion on the bar. “They’re seeing him too?”

That caught his attention. He straightened. “‘Too’?”

She hesitated, clearly debating how much to reveal. She rounded the bar and took a seat beside him. “Things have been happening here since we opened that chamber. Strange things. Lights flickering, sudden cold spots, glasses moving when no one’s near them.” She looked at him, her voice quieter now. “You saw it too, Sebastian. The glass. So you know I’m not imagining it. But it’s the sort of thing that would make me sound completely unhinged if I reported it officially.”

As if summoned by her words, the pendant light directly above them dimmed dramatically, then flared back to full brightness with a tiny crackling sound that might have been electrical interference or might have been something else entirely.

Sebastian told himself it was obviously faulty wiring. Old building, aging electrical systems, perfectly rational explanation.

His rational mind was becoming significantly less convincing lately.

“I haven’t told anyone about the incidents,” Tessa continued, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “I can’t risk undermining the heritage application by sounding like I’m manufacturing ghost stories to create interest.”

The practical, business-focused part of Sebastian wanted to agree with her caution, wanted to dismiss the whole conversation as stress-induced imagination. But something deeper—more primitive and considerably more honest—recognized the truth in her eyes and the genuine concern in her voice.

“I’ve been having dreams,” he heard himself say, the admission emerging without conscious permission. “I’m trapped in a very small space, can’t breathe properly, dust and debris everywhere. The ceiling feels like it’s about to collapse.”

Tessa’s gaze sharpened with laser focus. “Since when?”

“Since the day you discovered the remains.”

“That seems...significant.”

Sebastian didn’t want it to be significant. He wanted it to be stress, or too much coffee, or his subconscious processing the thought of the claustrophobic atmosphere of the hidden chamber. But the weight of those dreams still clung to his ribs every morning, making it difficult to breathe properly until he’d had his first cup of coffee and reminded himself that he was alive, safe, and definitely not buried under tons of rubble.

“I’ve started having my research team dig into the pub’s wartime history,” he said, grateful for the excuse to focus on concrete facts rather than supernatural speculation. “The building took serious structural damage during a September 1940 air raid. Repairs weren’t completed until sometime in 1947.”

“Seven years,” Tessa murmured. “Plenty of time for someone to be overlooked. Forgotten.”

She leaned slightly closer as she spoke, and Sebastian caught the scent of lavender soap and old paper—an oddly comforting combination that seemed to calm something restless in his chest.

“Have you found any identification? Any idea who he might have been?”

“Maybe. Record-keeping from that period was understandably chaotic, but maybe.”

Before Tessa could respond, the light fixture directly above them exploded.

Glass showered down in a burst of sparks and sudden darkness, sharp fragments catching the light from the windows as they scattered across the bar surface. Sebastian moved without thinking—pure instinct overriding rational thought as he lunged forward to shield Tessa from the falling debris. His hand closed around her upper arm, pulling her slightly to one side while his other arm came up to protect both their faces from the worst of the glass rain.

For a moment that stretched like pulled taffy, they stood frozen in that protective embrace. Tessa’s eyes were wide with surprise, her breath coming in short, startled gasps that he could feel against his throat. His own heartbeat sounded impossibly loud in his ears, and he was acutely aware of how perfectly she fit against his chest, how her hair smelled like sunshine and determination, how the warmth of her skin seemed to burn through the fabric of his shirt.

Then reality reasserted itself. Tessa stepped back, and Sebastian forced himself to let go, though his hands seemed reluctant to release their protective hold.

“Are you hurt?” His voice emerged rougher than he’d intended, scraped raw by adrenaline and something else he didn’t want to examine too closely.

“I’m fine,” she said, and was already reaching for a broom. “Thank you. And unfortunately, it’s not the first time something like this has happened. He’s getting more persistent.”

“ He? ”

“I found a name—Will Donovan. He worked here in 1939, disappeared during the Blitz. No one knows what happened to him. I think...it might be him.”

She paused, broom in hand. “He was listed as missing, maybe assumed to have enlisted. But if he died here, and no one knew—maybe that’s why this is happening.”

The name hit Sebastian like cold water, raising goosebumps along his arms despite the pub’s warmth. Will Donovan. It felt familiar in a way that made no rational sense, as if he’d heard it whispered in dreams he couldn’t quite remember.

“And you believe this Will Donovan is responsible for the supernatural activity.”

Tessa shrugged, a gesture that somehow managed to convey both pragmatism and infinite compassion. “I believe someone died here under tragic circumstances and doesn’t want to be forgotten. Whether that someone is Will Donovan specifically remains to be proven, but the timing certainly fits.”

A few of the other patrons had noticed the light explosion and were glancing over with expressions of mild curiosity. Tessa gave them a bright, practiced smile that betrayed none of the tension Sebastian could see in the set of her shoulders.

“Sorry about that,” she called out cheerfully. “Faulty bulb. Nothing to worry about—we’ll have it sorted in no time.”

Then, turning back to Sebastian with considerably more intensity, she lowered her voice again. “Will wants something from us. We need to figure out what that is.”

Sebastian blinked, caught off-guard by the pronoun. “ We? ”

“You’re having dreams about being trapped in small spaces,” she pointed out with irrefutable logic, emptying the dustpan into a waste bin. “The twins are seeing him clearly enough to have conversations. I’m dealing with daily supernatural interference in my place of business.” She straightened and met his eyes directly. “Whether we planned it or not, we’re all involved in this situation now.”

Every rational instinct Sebastian possessed was screaming that he should politely excuse himself, return to his office, and pretend this entire conversation had never happened. Westfield Development did not chase ghosts or investigate paranormal phenomena or get emotionally invested in the personal tragedies of long-dead pub employees.

Instead, he found himself nodding. “I’ll have my research team expand their investigation. Employment records, census data, military enlistment—anything that might help us piece together anything about Will Donovan.”

Tessa paused in her cleanup efforts, studying his face with an expression he couldn’t quite read. “Why would you help with this?”

Sebastian hesitated, acutely aware that his honest answer would reveal far more than was professionally advisable.

“I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep in a while,” he admitted finally. “Every time I close my eyes, I’m back in that hidden chamber, and I can feel the walls closing in. If there’s a connection between my dreams and what happened to Will Donovan, I need to understand what it is.”

It wasn’t the complete truth. It didn’t explain why her obvious pride in the porter’s history had made something warm unfurl in his chest, or why he kept finding excuses to look at the way the afternoon light caught the auburn highlights in her hair, or why the simple act of protecting her from falling glass had felt more significant than any business deal he’d closed in years.

But it was true enough to serve as an explanation that wouldn’t make him sound like a man whose carefully constructed professional priorities were being systematically dismantled by a pub owner with compelling eyes and an inconvenient talent for making him want to be someone better than he’d ever planned to become.

“All right,” Tessa said, extending her hand across the bar with a small smile that transformed her entire face. “Temporary truce while we figure this out?”

Sebastian took her offered hand, unsurprised by the spark of contact that seemed to travel up his arm and settle somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. Her grip was firm, warm, completely honest—everything he’d learned not to expect from business negotiations.

“Truce,” he agreed, though he suspected they both knew this alliance was going to complicate everything in ways neither of them was prepared to handle.