Page 40 of Trick Me
“Not really. My parents never quite accepted me for what I am. The ghosts scared them. I scared them. It was only my grandmother who had the same ability as me.”
He hums, his lips brushing the edge of my cheekbone. “Their loss. If they’d known what they were letting go of…”
I tilt my face toward him, drawn in by heat and gravity. His gaze drops to my lips. For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me again?—
“Remind me to thank the witch for cursing us,” he murmurs instead.
I glance up at him through my lashes, heart racing. “Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all.”
He dips his head again, brushing his lips against the shell of my ear. “You are so beautiful.”
A tremor slips down my spine. It’s not the curse.It’s not even the residual energy of the dead pressing at the edges of the ballroom. It’s him.
I go still, breath stuttering in my chest, like my heart is caught between beats. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why not?” he murmurs. “Because I meant them?”
I pull back just far enough to look up at him. His face is too close. His eyes are molten.
“Because I might believe you,” I whisper.
The corner of his mouth lifts, but it’s not his usual smirk. It’s quieter. Hungrier. “Then maybe I should say them again.”
His hand shifts on my waist, drawing me in as the music slows again. We move, swaying lazily. My body remembers this too well, his fire, his nakedness, his scent, the way he made me orgasm and scream.
Every brush of our bodies, every turn, feels slower. More deliberate. We’re not dancing anymore. We’re orbiting. Colliding.
I shouldn’t want this. Not like this. He’s a stranger. I met him tonight, under a curse, and yet he feels carved from some forgotten part of me.
I try to force logic into my voice. “This is crazy.”
“I know.” His gaze drops to my mouth. “And yet.”
I laugh, soft and nervous, and glance away. “Come on,” I say, tugging his hand. “I need a drink before you do something worse than raise the dead.”
He huffs a quiet laugh and lets me lead him offthe dance floor, his palm hot against mine. We weave between masked dancers and towering candelabras until we find a tall cocktail table near the edge of the room, half shadowed by velvet drapes.
“Sit,” he says, pulling out one of the high-backed chairs for me.
I climb onto the seat, suddenly very aware of the length of my bare legs from the high split in my green dress.
He leans down slightly, his voice close. “What’s your poison?”
“Surprise me.”
He flags down a server. A minute later, a pale pink cocktail appears in front of me, garnished with sugared berries. He takes a whiskey for himself and leans against the table beside me, the glass balanced between his fingers.
“To surviving the night,” he says.
I clink my glass to his. “We’re not done yet.”
We drink. His eyes never leave me.
After a beat, he sets his whiskey down. “So tell me, is talking to ghosts really a full-time job?”
“You’d be surprised,” I say, taking a longer sip than necessary. “Inheritance disputes, missing persons cases, cold-case murders. The dead know things, and the living pay a lot to hear them.”
He raises a brow. “Ever solve any murders?”
