Page 27 of Man of His Dreams

“Literally.”

“He’s been dead for a century. And I know you’re not an immortal vampire because I’ve seen you go out in the sun.”

That wasn’t the response that Flip had expected. “Vampire?”

“The subject comes up surprisingly often in this city.”

“Ah. The Anne Rice effect. I’m not a vampire. But… you know how Miss Amelie can… sort of see things?”

Tony tipped his head the other way. He slightly reminded Flip of an inquisitive cat. “I seem to remember that you were pretty skeptical about her abilities,” Tony said.

“I was in denial. Because the truth is… I can sort of see things too.” Flip held his breath as he waited for a scoff of disbelief or a snort of disgust.

But there wasn’t either. Just a slight nod. “You have the Clear Eye?”

“Apparently. I didn’t know that until I came here. I’d never heard of it, in fact. Miss Amelie told me that it helps me write—which, by the way, I have been doing like crazy lately. Finished the book I’d been stuck on for so long. But that’s not all. I can?—”

“—see dead people,” Tony finished mildly.

“You’re acting like that’s no big deal.”

“It’s better than being a vampire.” Tony grinned. “Look, I’ve heard enough stories about this stuff that I’m at least willing to keep an open mind. And you seem pretty grounded in reality, so if you say you can see spirits, well, maybe you can. But you specifically saw Scratch?”

Flip hadn’t realized how important it was that Tony believe him—but it turned out to be incredibly important. Relief flooded him so quickly that his knees went weak and he shuffled over to join Tony on the bed.

“I saw Scratch. We talked. We, uh… kissed.”

Finally Tony looked startled. “What?”

“Did you know that you look remarkably like him?”

Tony waited a few moments before speaking again. “Tell me the whole thing. From the start.”

Flip complied. He wanted to convey not just the facts, but also the emotions: Scratch’s sensuality and loneliness, the quiet wonder of interacting with spirits, the conviction that Scratch’s story was inextricably entwined with the story of New Orleans. The words came as easily to Flip’s mouth as they’d recently come to his fingers, and Tony listened without interruption.

Finally, silence fell. Not heavy as much as contemplative, and Flip didn’t disrupt it. He understood that it was a lot to take in, even for someone as open to things as Tony was.

“You haven’t seen him since that night we went to dinner?” Tony finally asked.

“No.”

“Is that why you wanted me here? To lure him back?”

Shit. This wasn’t exactly a love triangle that Flip had accidentally created—it was some other weird shape that geometry had no name for. And it was awkward as hell.

Flip took Tony’s hand and held it loosely, not wanting Tony to feel constricted. “I’m not trying to seduce him. Look, he’s been hanging around here for a hundred years, mostly all by himself, and I get the sense that he wasn’t the type of person who enjoyed solitude. There must be a reason for it, and I don’t think he’s waited for a century just to jump my bones.”

Some of the hurt had faded from Tony’s expression. “Then what?”

Flip smiled.

Chapter

Twelve

“Do you honestly think this will work?” Tony ran his fingers gently over the plastic keys.

Flip, pacing the bedroom nervously, shrugged. “Seems worth a try.”

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