Page 12 of Adored by the Grumpy Ghost (Mapletown Monster Mates #1)

He turns to face me and offers a hand. I take it and whisper, “Your what now?” The scent of pine and woodsmoke wafts toward me as I stand, and it’s so comforting, it feels like he’s just wrapped me in a blanket.

“Go with it,” he replies under his breath.

“Wife? Why have I never seen her here before?” Ethel demands, still holding the shears blades out.

“She just moved in. It’s new,” Winston says, not sounding convincing at all.

“We’re very much in love,” I add, popping my head out behind Winston’s arm.

Unfortunately, I don’t sound convincing either.

The adrenaline is making my voice shaky.

“It’s a p- pleasure to meet you, Ethel.” I’m still frazzled from the proximity of the blades to my face before Winston arrived, but I take a breath and plaster on a bright smile, hoping it shows Ethel that I’m not a threat.

Winston slowly reaches out to her, softening his tone. “I assure you, I wouldn’t let another woman looking for Thomas onto our property. You know that, right? Put the shears down, Ethel. Please.”

She drops them next to a cluster of ripe jalapenos, the blades sinking into the dirt.

“My heavens,” Ethel says, fanning herself with her hand.

“I’m sorry, Winston. I feel so foolish.” Her eyes grow wide with confusion as she surveys the garden, and then the rest of the property.

Is she looking for Thomas? Is Thomas even a real person? “You’ll forgive me, won’t you?”

“Of course. There’s nothing to forgive. Just a mix-up,” Winston assures her. “My wife and I are going for a stroll around the lake. Have a good day, Ethel.”

Winston takes my hand and tugs me toward the woods behind the garden. I make a weak attempt to yank my hand back, but Winston’s grip is too strong, plus, what am I going to do? Walk back to the house and pass by Ethel alone? No, thanks.

Once we make it inside the tree line and are hidden from Ethel’s line of sight, I turn on Winston, ready to ream him for keeping Ethel a secret, but before I can, he pulls me into his arms and presses my head against his chest. “I’m sorry, Natalie,” he says against my hair.

His hand is cradling the back of my head, while the other is rubbing slow circles over my back.

“Are you okay? Did she hurt you?” He pulls back to look me over, worry knitting his brows together.

I’ve never seen him so afraid . I wasn’t sure it was an emotion he was capable of feeling, to be honest, but the way he’s looking at me now wipes the anger from my mind, and makes my bones feel like they’re starting to melt.

With such focused attention from him in his corporeal form, I can admire the boyish beauty of his face, without the gray mist blurring his features.

The swirl of his green eyes stills me. Like I’m in a trance.

The shade of green is closest to tourmaline, probably.

A natural, plant-like green with hints of gold and dark gray, but with an unnatural heaviness that makes me wonder about his past. How I can help him overcome the pain that follows his every step.

His medium brown hair is swept neatly off his face, apart from one thick piece that falls in the middle of his forehead.

His brows are thick and straight, making him look slightly annoyed all the time, which is a stark contrast to the softness of his eyes.

He has a surprisingly straight nose, given the large bump on the bridge of it.

His lips are the real star here, though, with a plumpness that would inspire collagen injectors everywhere. In the center of those soft lips is a pointy Cupid’s bow, the V so dramatic that I want to trace it with my finger.

I watch his jaw muscles leap as he continues to assess me, and I realize the reason he’s starting to look even more concerned is because I’ve been eye-fucking him for who knows how long while he’s been waiting for an answer.

“I’m fine,” I tell him.

He’s not buying it, though. He grips my arms, rubbing them up and down. “You’re shaking. Come here.”

I suck in a breath, surprised as he pulls me back into his strong embrace. I sink into him, letting him hold me as his lips press against my hair.

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes as I wonder how long it’s been since I’ve been held like this.

Too long. I’m greedy for this kind of intimacy.

His arms feel so safe, like nothing harmful could reach me here.

Like he’s a mile-thick stone wall that not even grief could sneak past. A shiver rips through me at the feel of his breath on my ear, and he must think it’s still the shock of the encounter with Ethel wearing off, because he pushes a lock of hair behind my ear and whispers, “Shh. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He’s got me. Fuck, it feels good to hear someone say that.

As much as I want to stay here with him, my curiosity wins out. “I have questions,” I say, pushing back enough to look up at him. “Who the hell is Ethel? Is she dead too? And this Thomas person, why does she think I’m sleeping with him?”

He sighs as he lets go and starts walking deeper into the woods. I follow along, eager to hear the tale he’s about to tell. “Ethel lived here for about four years in the fifties. She and her husband, Thomas. They were newlyweds.”

Winston shoves his hands into his pockets, his head hanging low as he continues.

“I heard them talk about the kids they wanted to have, and what their names would be. They seemed incredibly happy, until he went off to war. That was about a year after they moved in, and suddenly, Ethel was all alone. No one ever came to visit. No family, or friends. I don’t know.

Maybe they were new to the area and didn’t have anyone close by.

“Loneliness took hold of her and didn’t let go.

She started to drink. I’m pretty sure she had a sickness of the mind.

A doctor would’ve written it off as female hysteria at the time, I’m sure.

She didn’t have the care or support she needed.

Thomas would write her letters, but they were few and far between.

Since she didn’t have anyone else to talk to, there wasn’t much keeping her away from the bottle.

Gardening was the only thing that brought her joy. ”

I nod, understanding. “So she died here?”

“Yeah,” he replies in a solemn tone. “One night, she mixed alcohol with pain medication her doctor prescribed her for migraines. She came outside to check on her garden. It was cold that night. Almost winter, if I recall. She laid down next to her marigolds and never woke up.”

I don’t know what to say. “That’s awful.”

“I could’ve intervened,” he starts, his voice cracking with emotion. “I was nervous, about how she would react to my presence. I could’ve done…something, though.”

Maybe that’s true, but he’ll never actually know if it would’ve helped, and given the haunted look in his eyes, he’s still beating himself up about it, seventy-five years later.

No one should hold on to guilt for that long.

“You’re doing something now,” I tell him.

“She may not have Thomas here, but she has you.”

Something flashes across his gaze. Something that looks like yearning, but it’s gone just as quickly. He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up in a way that has me biting my lip.

“The worst part is, she died before Thomas returned.” Winston stops and has a distant look in his eyes as he shakes his head.

“I have no idea what happened to him. Because Ethel was gone, she was no longer his next of kin, so if he died in battle, they would’ve contacted his parents, or maybe his siblings to let them know.

No one ever came here, and the house was sold less than a year after she died. ”

“Is that why she’s so confused?” I ask.

Winston starts walking again, and I can hear the faint babble of water flowing over rocks in the distance. We must be getting close to the lake.

“That’s a bit more complicated,” he says, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “When you die, it’s important to have a link to who you were when you were alive. Not only do I have this house, but I have some of my belongings in the attic. I can look at them and remember.”

“Ethel has her garden,” I point out. “Is that not enough?”

“Not always. See, Ethel’s memories from right before she died are clouded with booze and whatever it was that was plaguing her thoughts.

She became paranoid near the end and had multiple theories as to why Thomas hadn’t come home.

There were days she was certain Thomas fell in love with someone else, or that he was being kept prisoner and couldn’t write to her to let her know.

There was even a brief time when she thought he wasn’t really drafted and used the war as a cover to travel the world and accrue a string of mistresses.

“Most of the time, the garden is her sanctuary, and as long as she can tend it, she’s happy and calm, but on the days she forgets she’s even dead, or gets confused and locks onto one of those paranoid memories, there’s nothing you can say to reason with her.

“I kept her photographs for her. Tucked them away in the attic before her belongings were cleaned out. I’ve tried showing them to her, you know, to strengthen that link between her life and death.

She never wants to see them. It upsets her, I think, even considering that she and Thomas will never be reunited. ”

“That’s so sad.” I try to see this whole thing from Winston’s point of view.

It would be difficult to explain Ethel’s situation to someone you don’t know who’s just moved in.

That, I understand, but given how angry she was today, if he hadn’t shown up when he did, what would’ve happened to me?

Or Lindsay, if she were staying here instead?

As much as my heart breaks for Ethel’s story, I’m frustrated Winston didn’t prepare me for what she’s going through. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He scrubs a hand down his face, shame tightening his features. “I should’ve told you, and I’m sorry I didn’t.” He chuckles, startling me, as he says, “Truthfully, I didn’t think it would be an issue, given how rarely you go outside.”

My immediate instinct is to smack his arm, which I do. “That’s not true!”

He gives me wicked side-eye. “Exclude the times you’re walking from the house to the car.”

Shit. I can’t argue with him. “In my defense…” I begin, trying to come up with something reasonable. I land on, “the heat has been brutal, and you know, bugs.”

He barks out a laugh, throwing his head back. The creases in his smile are so long they almost reach the crinkles of his eyes. And there’s that dimple again. That heart-stopping dimple. “Excellent point. Bugs.”

I laugh with him, even if just to release some of the tension from earlier.

“Ah, here we are,” Winston says, speeding up toward the clearing. When we reach it, he turns to face me. “Now that that’s behind us. Care for a swim? I need a reset.”

“A reset?”

“Yeah, you don’t feel like a new person after a bath or shower?”

“I do, it’s just…I’m not wearing a bathing suit,” I say, waving my hands in a polite decline.

“Neither am I. Who cares?”

I continue to protest, self-consciousness twisting my insides at the idea of swimming in my underwear, showing that much skin. Winston has stopped listening to me, though. He’s too busy ripping off his clothes while striding purposefully toward the water.