Page 36 of Ghosted
I smile quickly. “We’ll get into my whole family history later. Come on, let’s do this now while you still have the energy.”
He sighs but lets his hand fall through mine on the way to the bed. I stand awkwardly near his dresser, not wanting to impose and screw up his memory retrieval, but hoping to provide silent support in case anything unpleasant surfaces.
He flops onto the bed—as much as one can flop as a ghost—and lies back against his pillow. He crooks an arm above his head, squirming around a bit. “So just, like, close my eyes?”
“Yeah. Just for a bit. Imagine your alarm is going off and take it from there.”
“Beep, beep, beep! Hell—I mean work—is waiting!” Dean intones in a robot voice. I dig my teeth into my lower lip to stop my smile.
He sits up in bed, theatrically rubs his eyes, and stands, reaching high overhead in a languid stretch.
“You know this only works if you try to keep it as close to your actual routine as possible, right?” I ask with a shake of my head.
He drops his hands to his sides and walks past me toward the en-suite bathroom, muttering, “Spoilsport.”
I trail behind but decide to stay in the bedroom in case he’s really getting into his method acting by getting naked orsomething. I busy myself with taking a closer look at his record collection. He has an impressive array of albums. Everything from Bon Iver to Khalid. The Beatles to Nirvana. It’s oddly endearing that he appreciates such a wide variety of music. He clearly finds joy in seeing so many different perspectives and must see a little of himself in each one, too.
“It’s really weird to pretend to pee when I don’t have those bodily functions anymore, Alderwood,” he complains from the bathroom. I put the Hozier record back in its rightful place and chuckle under my breath.
“Well, we can move on to more exciting things now,” I say, and for some odd reason, do weak jazz-hands. “What’s next in the exciting routine of Dean Crawford?”
The hiss and squeak of a shower being turned on is surprising enough to intrigue me, so I cross into the room. I reason with myself that if he didn’t want me in there, he would tell me. When I step into the large bathroom, Dean says, “Would you look at that,” in wonderment, staring at his glass-paned shower. I nearly faint at the sight of the rainfall shower and luxurious hair products visible through the glass. The man even has a towel warmer right next to his shower door. I’ve foamed at the mouth over bathrooms like this in home decor magazines.
“Look at you touching stuff,” I say happily, walking closer to his (thankfully or unthankfully, jury’s still out) clothed body. “My god, that’s a sexy shower,” I find myself saying, trailing a finger down the glass, imagining how nice that rainfall would feel on my shoulders.
“Probably my favorite feature of the house,” he says wistfully, watching the steam billowing out of the cracked-open door. “So, do I have to pretend to shower now?”
I tilt my head back and forth. “I mean, you can just stand in there for a bit, smell your fancy bath products, and then move along.” It’s only after I’ve said it that I remember he can hardly smell anything and feel like an insensitive dolt.
When he scans me with an amused tilt to his lips, I suddenly feel awkward at the thought of watching him shower, even if it would just be a pantomime version. I’ve only kissed the mantwice.That doesn’t give me enough leeway to leer at him in the shower. I think that requires at least third base.
I spin on my heel and decide to check out the paperback spread open on his nightstand. Anything to distract me from Dean, and bases, and the thought of him slick and smelling good while we race through them together. My nostrils flare at the faint scent of his products heated up by the water. Clean sandalwood, musk, and something deliciously spicy. I decide to breathe through my mouth to stop myself from joining him.
I pick up the book, careful not to lose his place, even though I doubt he’ll pick it up again. The thought makes me briefly, sharply sad, so I set the book down again the way I found it without even so much as reading the back cover. I sit down heavily on his bed and decide to mindlessly scroll social media for a bit, if only to distract my brain from any contradictory sexy or sad thoughts.
The shower turns off, and Dean strides across the room, gliding toward what I presume is his walk-in closet. He’s humming something almost recognizable, and it immediately puts me at ease. “This is the point where I pick a pretentious, but well-fitted suit and rue the day I decided to do a job where I couldn’t wear a t-shirt to work,” he calls from the depths of his closet. I laugh under my breath at that and shake my head, definitelynotwaiting with bated breath tosee if he’ll emerge wearing one of those sexy—er, well-fitted suits.
He flits out of the closet in a deep-navy suit tailored to fit him perfectly, and I nearly choke on my tongue. I want him to bend me over… something. Anything. A desk would be ideal, but Iamsitting on a bed, so that seems like an appropriate option. Should I just roll over now and lift my hips? Will he get the hint?
“Are you going to have me for breakfast, Alderwood?” he teases, needlessly adjusting his already perfect cuffs.
“I think you’re giving me a thing for suits, Crawford,” I say nonchalantly. I stand from the bed, deciding that now’s probably not the best time to try to figure out how to sleep with a ghost, considering we’re supposed to be sleuthing. If I’m being honest, I’m kind of prolonging being back in the garage because it was awful to be in the place where he died. I’m not holding out hope that the whole routine song and dance will do anything significant for his memory until we get in there. But I’m selfishly enjoying this time with him.
“Good thing I have at least ten in my repertoire that I can conjure from memory,” he says, suddenly in front of me and trailing a tingly finger down my cheek. I tilt my face up, fully in his thrall, and he leans down to brush a lingering kiss to my lips. I take a moment to revel in the feel of his plush, otherworldly lips on mine. I can’t believe I can experience a kiss with him again. He gives me a final, playful peck and pulls away. “Sorry, you’re hard to resist when you look at me like that.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like you want me. Despite all this. You wear your want so clearly on your face, Rae. Right here,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over my lower lip, still tender from my biting it.
“Oh,” I reply, coloring slightly at knowing my thoughts are so obvious on my face.
“I like it,” he says, smiling his crooked, dimpled smile.
“What’s next? Protein shake and a hundred push-ups?” I quip, trying desperately to move us forward and onto more even ground. He takes the hint, dropping his hand and backing up a little. I know I said I wanted to enjoy this little sliver of happiness, but every time he kisses me—touches me, even—I feel like I can’t breathe.
These moments feel like cupping my hands around water, watching it trickle from between my fingers, no matter how hard I try to seal the gaps. I can’t stop the ticking countdown in my head. How long will I have him? Have this? A couple of weeks? A month?
Every touch is better than the last, binding me to him atom by atom. When he leaves, he’ll take a part of me with him. I need to minimize the coming hemorrhage.
