Page 56 of Can't Always Get What You Want

She covers her face with her hands. “No.”

Hmmm.

Nova peeks at me between her fingers, enough for me to catch the edges of a reluctant smile. Her cheeks are still pink, but the embarrassment has mostly melted into something else now—something softer, lighter.

“Anyway,” she says by way of trying to change the subject. “It wasn’t supposed to be a whole thing.”

“It’s agreatthing,” I announce. “But now I have several follow-up questions. Do the ghosts pay rent? Do they knock before entering?”

Her palm barely connects with my bicep, but she leaves it there for a second too long.

Not that I mind.

“Knock it off,” her mouth is saying while her hand gives my muscles a light squeeze before dropping her hand from my arm and walking off—quickly, as if putting physical distance between us will help.

I follow.

“Are they friendly ghosts?” I muse to her back, eyes on her ass. “Sexy ghosts? Polite? Do they leave love notes?”

She tosses a glance over her shoulder, eyes narrowed, lips fighting a smile. “You’re obnoxious.”

Am I?

Nova turns the corner into the pasta aisle, and I follow like a guy entranced by her charm, my curiosity, and the very real possibility that I’d watch this woman shop for canned tomatoes for the rest of my life if it meant she’d keep throwing daggers at me over her shoulder like that.

I catch up as she’s reaching for a box of rigatoni on a high shelf, standing on her toes to grab it. Her jacket lifts and I catch a peek of skin above her waistband—just a sliver, but it’sfatal.

Curve of her back.

Slim waist.

Birthmark above her waistband.

“Is this all it takes to turn you on?” Nova laughs.

“Apparently.”

Nova recovers with a shaky laugh, but there’s a flush crawling up her throat now, blooming across her cheeks like maybe she’s feeling the heat, too.

“So I was thinking…” she begins, sliding the box back into position.

“Yeah?”

We wander farther down the aisle, side by side now. Her shoulder bumps mine lightly as she reaches for a jar of sauce, turning it to study the nutritional content.

She sets it down. Turns to face me. “That we pick out ingredients and go back to my place. Tocook?”

Twist my arm.

“Totally. I’m starving already.”

Nova bites her lip and studies the shelves, tapping her forefinger in the center of her chin.

“What about…” she muses, scanning rows of jars and boxes and grabbing hold of spaghetti. “You can’t go wrong with carbonara. It’s delicious, it's simple—it has got bacon.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Everyone does pasta. It’s the food equivalent of sweatpants.”

She laughs at how dumb I sound. “Oh, I’m sorry—did you want to sous-vide something tonight, Chef?”

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