Page 40 of Ghost Of You

When she finally reappeared, dressed to kill in a light blue floral dress and heels, makeup on point with red lips and winged eyeliner, I tried to approach her like a moth to a flame. Naturally, I got swatted away with a warning that I'd ruin her masterpiece if I so much as breathed on her. So, I held up my hands in surrender and sat back down, but not before she ordered me to get changed into something more respectable than my usual lounging gear. I went with black skinny jeans and a band t-shirt, which earned me a look that said, 'Really?' But it passed the test.Women and their standards for perfection, I tell you.

A knock on the door interrupts my musings, and I shuffle over to answer it. Ethan’s standing there with a bottle of whiskey and some flowers.

“As much as you’re a good-looking man, flowers aren’t going to win my heart,” I joke.

He laughs and flips me off. “Good thing I brought the whiskey then, huh?”

We exchange a quick bro-hug before he heads straight for the kitchen. Laelia glances at him, then turns back to her pots, clearly deep in focus.

Ethan leans over to me, not taking his eyes off her. “What was that look?”

“She just approved your outfit,” I whisper back.

“Ah, good to know,” he says, stepping closer to offer her the flowers.

Laelia’s eyes flick from the flowers to Ethan, then to me. “Killian,” she says flatly.

“Yep,” I say, popping the “p” and already knowing what’s coming.

She gives Ethan a tight smile. “Thanks, Ethan. They’re lovely.” And then she’s back to stirring whatever’s in the pot.

Ethan side-eyes me. “What’s crawled up her arse?”

Without missing a beat, Laelia calls over her shoulder, “Ethan, I can still hear you. So, unless you want to enjoy a stick up your arse and burnt food, I’d recommend behaving.”

Ethan flashes his most charming smile, the one that usually gets him out of trouble, but Laelia’s not even looking. “Don’t bother kissing my arse now,” she adds.

She knows Ethan too well. He’s a walking snark machine—give a sarcastic comment, smile like a saint, and carry on with life. That’s Ethan. Predictable as ever.

Navigating the kitchen with practised ease, I grab a vase and set it aside, keen to avoid Laelia’s impending critique. I also grab two glasses and fill them with ice, then make my way back to Ethan, who’s settled comfortably on a stool, positioned strategically away from Laelia.

With a swift and efficient motion, I arrange the flowers, place them on the table, and slide a glass over to Ethan. His face lights up with a grin as he takes the glass, and with a playful glint in his eye, he pops open the whiskey bottle.

“Cheers,” he says, pouring the amber liquid into both glasses. He raises his glass in a toast.

I lift my glass to meet his, and we clink them together before I take a generous gulp.

As I savour the warmth of the whiskey, I catch Laelia’s disapproving glare from the corner of my eye. “What?” I ask, playing innocent.

“Please don’t get drunk before we eat,” she says, clearly stressed.

I get it. She’s been obsessing over this day all month. She even sat down with my mum at the start of December to plan everything, including practice runs of today’s recipes. Let’s just say the house has smelled like a series of near-disasters ever since.

“Someone’s in trouble,” Ethan singsongs, earning himself a flip of the bird from me.

Laelia catches my eye, looking like she’s about to lose it. “I promise, beautiful, I won’t get drunk before dinner,” I say, trying to soothe her nerves. “But no promises for after.”

She finally cracks a smile. “Thank you.”

Soon, my mum and Lloyd arrive, and as expected, my mum heads straight to the kitchen to help Laelia, leaving me out in the cold. She even tells Lloyd to sit down with us because, apparently, burning things runs in the family.

Thanks, mum.

With the ladies shooing us away, the three of us huddle around the dining table, swapping stories about our teenage shenanigans. There are tales my mum doesn’t even know about, so I try to keep my voice down, but she overhears and gives me that knowing look.Mums really do have a sixth sense, don’t they?

Suddenly, the unmistakable smell of something burning wafts through the room. We turn to see Laelia rushing to the oven, flinging the door open as smoke billows out.

“No!” she wails, staring at the charcoal lump that used to be a turkey.

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