Page 7 of Adored by the Grumpy Ghost (Mapletown Monster Mates #1)

Natalie

I wake up coughing, and my entire body radiates with pain.

Even with the windows open, the inside of my car is swampy and gross.

I need to get out of here, but I’m too miserable to move.

A wave of nausea is what ultimately gets me moving, and I vomit as soon as I open the car door.

I stumble outside into the blinding sun, and the loud hum of insects in the surrounding forest rattles my skull.

My braid has come mostly undone, the freed strands damp with sweat against the back of my neck.

Rum was a bad idea. A very bad idea. I’m not a hard liquor girl, but I doubt I would’ve been able to sleep without it. Although, given how sore my neck is, the sleep I did get was shit.

I hesitate at the front door, wondering if I imagined the ghost criticizing my taste in men last night, or if that was just my subconscious. “Hello?” I ask once I step inside. “Ghost man?”

Silence.

The smell of butter and maple syrup pulls me toward the kitchen, and I find a plate on the counter, with a steel plate cover over it, a single glass of orange juice, with a cloth napkin and utensils beside it.

Clearly, there’s someone here, because I didn’t make this. What confuses me is who this was made for. I creep closer, trying to determine what’s under the plate cover, simply by scent. Pancakes?

Mm, pancakes.

Looking around and finding no one, I lift the cover, and my stomach growls at the sight of French toast, steam rising off the pile, and drenched in syrup.

“Have some,” a deep voice says from behind me, making me jump and squeak in surprise. “I made it for you, Natalie.”

Ghost Man is real. He floats into the room, a fog trailing him and slightly blurring his features.

He must’ve been tall when he was alive––over six feet, I’d say––based on the height of his misty presence.

Though he doesn’t touch the ground, I can’t even see his feet through the fog, he moves with the kind of grace and purpose I’ve only seen in predatory animals on nature documentaries.

“It’s rude to stare, you know.” His tone is cold, but the way his lips curve on one side tells me he’s teasing.

I realize my mouth is hanging open, and I’m still holding the plate cover in my hand. I must look frozen in shock, and also, in my current state, like absolute trash. “Uh, sorry,” I mutter, dropping onto the stool. “Thank you for breakfast. It looks delicious.”

My mouth is watering, and I want so badly to take a bite, but his kind gesture doesn’t make sense, given how terrifying he was last night. He doesn’t want me here, so what’s the motive? “Did you poison it?”

He chuckles, the gravelly sound lighting up parts inside me that I assumed had gone permanently dark. “You’ve been here for eight days. If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.”

A sigh of relief escapes me just before I shove a forkful of French toast in my mouth.

I moan as the warmth and sugar and buttery goodness makes me forget about my splitting headache, and Ghost Man’s eyes darken as he watches me.

“S’good,” I mumble. Then, after a sip of orange juice, “What was your name again?”

The darkness fades as amused composure takes its place. “Winston,” he says. “I told you last night, but I knew you weren’t listening.”

“Yeah, I guess I was a little distracted by you slut-shaming me in the driveway.” My tone is cutting, and I have to suppress the urge to apologize.

This isn’t how I speak to people, especially if I find them intimidating, and I definitely find Winston intimidating.

But he acted like a dick last night, and my hangover and sore neck are entirely his fault.

He rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t slut-shaming you. My comments had nothing to do with you. It was more about your choice of sex partner.”

I chuckle at the furrow in his brow, and the way he says ‘sex partner’ as if the words are laced with acid.

He tilts his head to the side as his body floats closer, his gaze narrowing as it sweeps over my face. Blood rushes to my cheeks. He’s inches from me now, two, maybe three. “You’re not afraid of me anymore, are you? Do you have experience communicating with the dead?”

“I’m not not afraid,” I say, my mouth suddenly dry.

“You’re dead, and somehow, you’re right in front of me.

It’s weird. Definitely weird. It freaks me out that I can see through you, but no, I’ve never met another ghost. Though, I figured your kind existed.

I hoped so, anyway.” Mom’s smile pops into my head, and I wonder why I’m stuck being haunted by this rando and not her.

I clear my throat, bringing my mind back to the present.

“Why are you being nice to me? I thought you wanted me to leave. Is this a pity breakfast?”

Winston shakes his head. “I don’t pity you.

Do you think you’re the only one who’s lost someone they love?

I watched my wife and son die within hours of each other.

My father, mother, my brother, and sister––I outlived all of them.

Loss is part of life. You,” he pauses, sighing heavily, “you get used to it.”

My stomach sinks like a stone at his words. I want to be mad at him for comparing our levels of grief, but I can’t. He lost his wife and child on the same day? That kind of trauma is unfathomable.

“I’m sorry. That’s awful.” The words are utterly inadequate, given what he’s gone through, but it’s all I have to give.

Is his spirit lingering here so he can process it? I have so many questions about how long he’s been dead, what killed him, and what his wife was like, but they all feel too personal.

Besides, I need to get my first question answered before we start getting to know each other. “Um, so you made me breakfast because…”

“Right,” he says with a jerky nod of his head, as if trying to shove his pain into the back of his mind. I imagine that’s where he’s kept it buried for far too long. “I was hoping you could help me.”

“Help you? With what?”

“I did some thinking last night, and while I may not approve of the men you choose to date–”

“Mark? We’re not dating,” I interject. “Just sex.”

He floats around the kitchen as he continues. “Or the trail of crumbs you leave with your obscene cracker consumption, or the way you leave every cabinet door open without closing them, or how you play the same songs over and over…”

I hold up a hand to stop him. This is the worst possible time to hear a list of my flaws. Maybe if I weren’t so hungover, I could handle a roast, but not now. Not when my tongue feels like it’s wearing a turtleneck. “Is this you asking me for a favor?”

He smiles, and there’s a twinkle in his eye that makes me long to know the color.

The spectral fog that’s attached to him steals the color from his eyes, skin, hair, and makes him a tall grayish wall of smoke.

I want to see him. The real him. Was he handsome when he was alive?

I’m pretty sure he was. Even without color, I can’t tear my eyes away from him.

“Not quite. I think we will be helping each other. You see,” he explains, “if you move out, Lindsay might find someone else to stay here while she decides the fate of my home. That person could be even messier than you are. With even more,” he pauses as he tries to find the right word, “baffling musical tastes.”

I jerk back. “What’s wrong with Taylor Swift? When I’m depressed, she’s my go-to. As you’ve noticed, my mental state has been baseline terrible for a while now.”

The muscle in his jaw leaps. “She’s fine. Perfectly mediocre. But why not try a little variety?”

Perfectly mediocre? The Taylor Alison Swift? Forget how hot he must’ve been when he was alive. This guy’s a moron. “It’s not like I knew anyone else was here. I was blasting my music the way I like to listen to it because I assumed I was alone.”

“Now that you know you’re not…” he trails off, a clear plea for me to give him what he wants.

“Fine,” I huff, taking a spiteful bite of my breakfast. That’s when I realize this is a negotiation. If he wants me to stay, then I can toss out some demands of my own. “But you need to stop spying on me. I don’t want you listening in on my phone calls, or peeping on me in the shower–”

“I’m a married man,” he interrupts, with a hand over his heart. The silver wedding band is still on his finger, after all these years. “I would never do that.”

“Your desire to spy on women without consent shouldn’t have anything to do with your marital status, just FYI.

” He rolls his eyes as I continue. “Swear on your wife and child that you won’t be a total creep and I’ll take your word for it.

” It might be a cruel thread to pull, but it’s the only leverage I have.

Based on the way his voice cracked when he first mentioned them and the tortured look he’s giving me now, it’ll work.

“Done. Can you clarify your terms? I don’t want to make assumptions and unintentionally cross a line.”

Now we’re getting somewhere.

“No more judgmental comments about Mark. I was weak and horny, and that’s why I invited him, but I don’t care about him enough to defend him. When you mock him, it feels like you’re mocking me. So drop it, okay?”

He dips his chin in agreement. “What else?”

“This is the important one. If I’m behind a closed door, you need to knock before entering.

I don’t want to worry about being watched while I’m sleeping or doing anything else.

No floating in and scaring the shit out of me or coming in without me seeing you,” I tell him.

“I assume that’s how you’ve stayed hidden until last night? ”

He nods. “Yes, I can make myself invisible. In your presence, I no longer will. I swear it. On Susanna and Daniel.” His eyes look wet as he says his son’s name, and I wonder if ghosts can cry.

If they can, do the tears actually fall?

Or just disappear? “But in the presence of anyone else, I will not show myself.”

“Right, and this whole deal is in an effort to keep your presence a secret from Lindsay, correct?”

“Mm. As long as she doesn’t know I exist, she will continue to think of this as a dusty old house she wants nothing to do with. She’ll let you stay here, and nothing will change for me. That’s what I want.”

I don’t feel comfortable lying to Lindsay, especially since she’s trusting me to keep the house in order until she decides what to do with it.

However, until I get a job and start making money, this is the only rent-free housing I’ll be able to get, so it benefits me to keep Winston’s existence hidden.

“Anything else?” he asks.

“When the door is open, you can come in, as long as you’re visible. Obviously, we’ll share the common areas.” A thought occurs to me. “Where do you sleep? Do you sleep?”

“The attic is my room, and it’s off-limits. That’s where my personal items are kept. I don’t require sleep, so most nights I will read in the study, or I will roam the property, checking to see if repairs are needed anywhere.”

“Got it. I’ll stay out of the attic.”

“Then, we have a deal?” he asks, his lips curving with hope and showing off a large dimple in his right cheek. A dimple I want to curl up and take a nap in, and will no doubt keep picturing for the rest of the day.

I hold out my hand, then pull it back. “Oh, right. You can’t shake.” The scene from Casper plays in my head, when Kat and Casper’s hands float through each other. Is that how it would be with Winston? “Or can you?”

He chuckles softly. “Hold out your hand.”

When I do, he outstretches his much larger hand, and it crosses right through my skin and blood and bones, and the only thing I feel is a cold, tingly sensation. Like sticking your hand into a snow pile and getting pins and needles.

“I can do this ,” he says as I start to giggle, “or this .”

His translucent hand retreats, and when it inches back toward me, I notice a difference.

Color. His rough fingers wrap around mine and grip as he shakes.

An earthy scent fills my nose, and as I breathe it in, I realize it’s his.

Pine and woodsmoke. A comforting, alluring smell that reminds me of autumn.

The rest of him is still that misty gray from before, but from his elbow down to his fingertips, there’s a real hand. It’s cold, but it’s firm. His skin is a light tan, his fingers are thick with trimmed and clean fingernails, and soft brown hair covers the corded muscles of his forearm.

“Wow,” is all I can say. We’ve stopped shaking, and now we’re just holding hands. “This is crazy, but it’s real, right? I’m not imagining it? Or you?”

Winston lets go and guffaws loudly at my question. “I’d hope your imagination could do a lot better than a stubborn asshole like me, Natalie.”

Normally, I’d be quick to protest such a comment. I’d say, “Oh, you’re not so bad,” even without knowing much about him. I’d still want to make him feel better. But something about Winston makes me want to push back.

I tilt my head to the side, letting my gaze slowly drift up and down the length of his form as I straighten my spine. “Good point. The ghost of Pedro Pascal would be a much sweeter roommate.”

“I don’t know who that is,” Winston replies, his brows pinched together, as if he assumes I made him up.

“Shame. You could learn a lot from him.”

I go back to eating my breakfast with a smirk tugging at my lips, knowing I rattled my grumpy roommate. That’s never been a skill of mine. I’m the woman who agonizes over what she should’ve said days, even weeks later.

Winston floats out of the room, and I let out a deep breath of relief once I’m alone. What is it about him that puts me on edge? And is he truly an asshole? Or just annoying as hell?

He’s rude, and nosy, and he definitely needs a hobby, but I get this feeling he’s, I don’t know…misunderstood? Like there’s a deeper layer to him that’s self-effacing and affable.

My feelings are famously flawed, though, especially when it comes to men. The ones who seem broken by trauma and just waiting for The Right Woman to come along and put them back together seem to flock to me, and I can never resist.

It’s a problem.

I’ve wasted too many years on men like that––one man in particular––and I don’t want to keep making the same mistakes.

I’d like to settle down someday. Maybe get married.

Kids probably aren’t in the cards for me anymore since I’m in my forties, and that’s okay.

As long as I have someone to come home to, someone who loves me as much as I love them, does what he says he’s going to do, and doesn’t take advantage of how much I’m willing to give, that’s all I need.

I wonder what Winston was like as a husband. Was he attentive and–– No. Stop thinking about him as anything other than your dead roommate.

Catching feelings for the ghost in the attic would be a colossal mistake, and one I can’t afford to make.