Page 9 of Who Pissed Off Ivy Dell?

Ivy opens her door with a smile, her hair is still damp from the shower, and there’s a sun-kissed glow on her cheeks. She must’ve spent some time outside today. I want to touch her warm skin, breathe in the smell of her shampoo, and taste her kiss, but I also want to memorize every detail about her standing in the doorway, smiling at me like this.

“That’s a big bag for popcorn.”

“I brought dinner, too.”

“Oh, yeah? What are we having?”

“Cheesy scrambled eggs and wine.”

“Classy.”

“Damn. I should’ve left off the wine.” I step forward and claim her mouth with mine. The kiss is aggressive, and she matches my intensity. “I was kind of in the mood for trashy this evening.”

“Would you settle for a classy slut?”

“Is that like an average slut, but with a nice glass of wine in her hand?”

“Who are you calling average?”

“Not you, beautiful. You are a superior slut.” I kiss her on the forehead and step past her.

She follows me into the kitchen. “Did you bring butter for my popcorn?”

“Of course. You’re not dealing with an amateur here.”

I open the wine and pour us both a glass. She trails her tongue around the rim to tease me while we wait for the kernels to explode. “You keep doing things like that and you’re going to end up with burned popcorn.”

Her laugh is seductive, and I don’t even think she’s trying. “No meteor shower tonight,” she says. “What am I supposed to look at while I eat my popcorn?”

“You’ll see stars. I promise.”

The first kernel pops, and she jumps a little, which makes her giggle at herself, and that makes me laugh. “Somebody’s jumpy tonight.”

“Maybe she’s just really excited about the appetizer portion of the meal.” She puts the butter in the microwave.

“I know I’m looking forward to it.”

She hands me a bowl, and I dump the popcorn into it. Her hand looks so delicate as she pours the melted butter over it. Mine are rough, and they bear more than a few scars, but hers are smooth, unmarred except for one small white V on the side, near the base of her thumb.

“How’d you get that scar?”

“Broke a glass while washing dishes. I forget it’s even there.”

Bringing her hand up for closer inspection, I kiss the thin scar. It’s so symmetrical, it almost looks intentional. “Even your scars are beautiful.”

“So are yours.”

I know she meant something deeper, but I hold her hand next to mine for comparison, anyway. She pulls our hands toward the popcorn bowl. “You have to stir the butter.”

Her hand plunges into the bowl. I shake in some salt, and then my hand follows hers. We toss the popcorn around, our fingers colliding, lifting a mountain of popcorn until some topples over the edge.

We take turns feeding each other, and I’m having a harder time than usual taking my eyes off her tonight. But I’m ready for hers to close, so I make her see stars.

She brings her wine, but leaves the popcorn in the kitchen, when I pull her toward the bed. I laugh to myself at the amethyst figure she keeps on her nightstand, facing away from her pillow because she’s been a little unsettled by it ever since the spooky sisters gave it to her. And more so since I turned it around to face her in the middle of the night. I’m going to turn it around while she sleeps every chance I get because it’s funny, but there really is something slightly unnerving about it.

I take Ivy’s glass and set it next to the not-angel-maybe-ghost amethyst woman.

“Lie down.”

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