Her pulse fluttered as his fingers brushed her neck. “You know something?”

“What?” He kept taking out pins but stopped when she didn’t respond. “What’s wrong?”

“Not a thing. In fact, everything’s right. I just wanted to tell you how incredibly blessed I feel to be your wife. You’re everything I ever dreamed of, Nate.” She swallowed past the lump in her throat and smoothed out the twin lines above his nose with her index finger. “Handsome, smart, compassionate, principled, trustworthy. A man of faith and values. I feel like the luckiest person in the world.”

One side of his mouth hitched up. “Mutual, I’m sure.”

A soft laugh bubbled up inside her. “I see my sisters have let you in on our little game.”

“Yep. They even gave me the answer—White Christmas.”

“That makes it official. You’re now part of the family.”

“We should celebrate.” He resumed his pin-removal mission.

“I agree. Especially since my sisters were convinced a woman who spent her days around dead people didn’t have much chance of meeting a living, breathing man to date, let alone marry.”

“I’m very much alive. Want me to prove it?”

“By all means.”

He quickly dispensed with the rest of the pins.

Once her hair was tumbled around her shoulders, he framed her face with his hands, his gentle touch bordering on reverent. “I love you more than words can say, Grace. And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it.”

“You’ve already made an excellent start on that.” She put her arms around his waist and moved in close, until there was no space between them. Then she rose on tiptoe.

He met her halfway as Nat King Cole launched into “Unforgettable.”

How appropriate.

For this man . . . this day . . . this moment . . . were indeed unforgettable.

And as his lips closed over hers—tender, ardent, filled with the promise of passion to come—Grace gave thanks.

Maybe her sisters had found their real-life heroes first, but as far as she was concerned, God had saved the best one for last.

Sneak Peek of the Next Installment in the Hope Harbor Series

MAYBE BUYING A HAUNTED HOUSE wasn’t her best idea.

Stomach churning, Ashley Scott braked as Windswept Way dead-ended at two open but imposing iron gates bookended by a tall, overgrown hedge. Surveyed the large, faded “Private Property—Keep Out” and “Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted” signs posted at the entrance. Read the word carved into the weathered stone block on the left.

Edgecliff.

Also known as Fitzgerald’s Folly, according to local lore. A place with a storied past filled with triumph and tragedy. Where nocturnal sightings of a woman in white and ethereal music seeping from the house fed the rumors that the estate was haunted.

Ashley massaged her forehead and blew out a breath.

No wonder her mother thought she’d gone off the deep end.

But after forking over the money for a cross-country trek to Hope Harbor, Oregon, it would be even crazier to turn tail and run without keeping the appointment she’d made last week with the owner.