Page 49 of Séance

His hair is cut at an angular fringe, leaving the edges almost long enough to hang into his eyes. It’s also slightly lighter than his brother’s, bleached by all the time he spends outdoors. The strands are somewhat ragged, like he continuously runs his fingers through them.

His skin is sun kissed, the tan giving him a warm look that invites a girl to touch, not that anyone would dare make that mistake. His expression is almost always severe, the fucker stingy with his smiles. I’m drawn to the raw intensity of his eyes, like he’s seen darkness and might not be afraid of mine.

His clothes are more of an afterthought. The casual look suits him, giving him a bad boy edge that’s irresistible. I’m not even aware I’ve been staring until I notice the silence, and I peer up at him from under my lashes.

Much to my mortification, he’s gazing down at me with a smirk. I shuffle awkwardly for a moment, then lift my chin, deciding to own it. “Thank you for the wonderful ride. I didn’t know I needed to get away until we were zipping down the road.”

“Riding quiets the noise in my head.” He shrugs, fiddling with the keys of the bike. “It allows me to think.”

My eyes widen when I realize he’s right. Not once while we were on the bike did I see one spirit. I’m giddy with the realization. Wanting to thank him, I impulsively blurt out an invitation. “I’m going to make supper if you want to join me?”

Why didn’t anyone warn me that talking to boys could be so awkward? It’s like they are an alien species with a whole different language as I try to navigate what’s considered appropriate conversation for people my age. Granted, talking to everyone feels awkward as fuck, but it’s different when talking with the guys.

They are…different.

Jaceson’s expression turns unreadable, his lips slightly pursed as he scans my face, then a hint of amusement twinklesin his eyes, and he raises a questioning brow in my direction. “Can you even cook?”

Suspicion coats his tone, and I purse my own lips, contemplating if I could get away with lying. Unfortunately, the answer would be pretty obvious in a matter of minutes. “Not really,” I admit without shame, then I shrug. “Nan packed the freezer full of food. I’m sure I can figure out how to run the microwave. I also have access to a stack of takeout menus if that might be more to your taste.”

As I continue to ramble, his smile grows, and my breath catches when I’m subjected to the full effect.

“I’m not as talented as the others,” he says, lightly pressing a hand to my lower back, and I allow myself to be led to my front door. “But I should be able to put something together.”

I snort at the absurdity of him not being as good as the others. “You’re being modest. I have no doubt if you put your mind to something, you could achieve anything.”

Jaceson stumbles over nothing before catching himself, then he peers down at me with eyes that see too much. Feeling self-conscious, I clear my throat and fumble to locate the house key.

From his reaction, it’s obvious I said something wrong.

Maybe I was too forward?

A blush heats my cheeks, but I decide not to worry about it. My whole life, I’ve been beaten for speaking, and soon became terrified to open my mouth.

No longer.

When I finally manage to unlock the door, I vow never to let myself be afraid to speak my mind again. Placing the keys in the dish by the door, I step toward the fridge, then wince when I see the meager supplies, the shelves embarrassingly bare.

Some fruit and vegetables, butter, eggs, milk, cheese, and about a dozen bottles of condiments.

“Um…let me grab something from the freezer.” I reach for the handle, when Jaceson deftly catches me around my waist and spins me in some sort of fancy dance move. A startled laugh escapes me as I clutch him close, then I somehow find myself seated on a stool near the counter, completely breathless from the effortless way he moved.

When he pulls away, I almost reach for him, not ready to let him go. Digging a phone from his pocket, he fiddles with something on it, and then music fills the room. It’s a mixture of singing and heavy bass, not like rock or hip-hop, but more dramatic. It reminds me of him, and I decide I like it.

With the fridge still open, Jaceson scans the contents, then he gathers almost everything in his arms. The way he moves around the kitchen says he’s comfortable in his body, and I find his confidence sexy.

He opens two of the cupboards before he finds what he wants. Setting the bowl and carton of eggs in front of me, he gives me instructions in a no-nonsense tone that says he’s used to being obeyed. “Crack six eggs into the bowl.”

Without waiting to see if I listen, he turns and grabs a chopping board and knife. After washing the vegetables, he juliennes them, holding the knife like it’s an extension of himself.

Nibbling on my lip, I focus on my chore. I gingerly pick up an egg. The icy shell and the light weight surprise me. I’m not an idiot, I recognize most things, but experience is another thing.

I’ve never held a real egg.

I roll it around in my hand, then shrug. The instructions seem pretty self-evident—crack it.

I gently tap it against the bowl, but that gets me nowhere.

Frowning in confusion, I put more effort into it, only to get the same effect.

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