Page 33 of Best In Class (Savannah's Best #7)

Luna

D om has planned every date since we officially became a couple. And he’s been innovative. We’ve gone on boat rides, rooftop dinners, museum walks, and moonlit strolls through the squares like we’re starring in our own Southern Hallmark romance.

So, when I tell him it’s my turn, instead of saying, ‘ Thank you ,’ like a normal person, he challenges me to do better.

The nerve!

“So, what are you planning?” Stella asks, her ballet flats on my desk as she leans back in my client chair at the end of a Friday.

I grin, an evil glint in my eyes.

She chuckles. “Escape room?”

I shake my head slowly. “Ghost tour.”

She raises both eyebrows .

“In a hearse.”

She bursts out laughing.

“He was afraid of ghosts for a long time, even as a teenager. Lev had him convinced that our grandfather wandered the stables. Every time we were there, the poor kid was scared shitless.” I rub my hands together. “That’ll teach him to compete with me.”

Stella studies me for a long moment. “And…you love this man?”

“Completely. Body and soul.”

She nods skeptically. “But you want to scare the living daylights out of him?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Luna, sweetie, you’re an odd duck, you know that, right?”

“Right back at you, sistah .”

Dom seems to agree with her assessment, judging by the suspicious look he gives the old mortuary-turned-tour headquarters as we pull up on East York Street.

“This is going to be one for the history books,” I tell him as I lead him to a black 1972 Cadillac hearse. It’s retrofitted with velvet seats and eerie purple underlighting that glistens under the lamplight like it just rolled off of a Tim Burton movie set.

“ This is your idea of a date?” Dom asks haughtily.

“It’s Savannah,” I reply sweetly. “Of course, it is.”

He narrows his eyes, then glances at the Cadillac. “You know, I believed in ghosts when I was a kid. ”

“Really?” I flutter my eyelashes like I’m trying to recall. “I don’t remember.”

“Of course, you don’t,” he quips sarcastically.

I give him a look of pure glee. “You did say ‘ do better .’ I am doing better.”

“Are you?” he asks dryly, an eyebrow arched.

God! He’s so handsome. I could eat him up in two bites.

“And”—I link my arm through his—“when I told Miss Abigail my plan for the date, she reminded me, and I want you to note she was chortling when she told me how you wouldn’t sleep in the dark until you were fifteen.”

He groans. “She needs to stop telling you things.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Moonbeam, your idea of fun and mine are different.”

“Man up, Calder. It’s time to pay respect to Savannah’s history,” I tell him and then turn to face him. I go on tip-toe and brush my lips against his. “And, if you get scared, I’ll hold your hand.”

His hands go to my waist, clasping tight. He pulls me close. “Oh, I’ll hold something of yours.” He cups my ass and squeezes.

I laugh.

Loudly .

I’m full of joy.

Like I haven’t been… ever .

The tour guide, a lanky man in a black waistcoat with a shock of silver hair and a voice like molasses, waves us over.

“Welcome to Dead of Night,” he intones. “You two lovebirds ready to ride with the spirits? ”

Dom mutters, “Define ready.”

“I’ll leave the bedside light on tonight,” I tell him cheekily.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“You betcha.”

We climb into the back of the hearse, which smells like old wood, cloves, and something faintly metallic. Dom slides in beside me.

There are six of us, plus the tour guide.

There’s an older couple from Lubbock who are in Savannah to celebrate their thirtieth wedding anniversary and are fans of everything ghostly.

And a gay couple from Oregon who are in Savannah for the first time, and were told that the hearse tour is a must-do experience.

We glide slowly through the historic district, past mansions draped in moss and stories.

“Welcome, everyone,” our guide says. “I am William Butler”—he dramatically pauses—“Jones.” He cackles. “I’m sure y’all were thinkin’ I’d say Yeats.”

We all murmur a chuckle.

We stop by a playground and Mr. Jones puts the flashlight right under his chin so it casts his face in dramatic shadows like he’s auditioning for a ghost-hunting show.

“Behind that playground”—he gestures toward a wrought-iron fence—“is the site of the old orphanage. Underneath the swing sets and monkey bars are… sixty-plus graves of children who died during the yellow fever outbreak of 1820. Buried fast. Shallow. No markers. People say the swings still move on windless nights. Kids claim they hear laughter… and crying.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes and instead inch a little closer to Dom. “Are you okay?”

He wraps an arm around me. “I think you should hold me tight because I’m getting a little spooked.”

I smack him playfully on his chest.

The hearse slowly drives down a moss-draped lane toward a crumbling townhouse.

“Here,” Mr. Jones continues, pointing to the aging brick, “is where Eleanor Carmichael, widowed at twenty-seven, threw herself off the second-floor balcony.” He makes sure we all know which balcony he’s talking about, ‘cause there are two of them. “Her husband died in the war. They say she’s still waiting for him to return. You can see her on moonlit nights, white dress fluttering, hair blowing in a wind that doesn’t exist.”

I frown and whisper, “What is she waiting for? Shouldn’t she go on up and join him?”

Dom leans down and murmurs, “Maybe she’s haunting us ‘cause their marriage sucked and she doesn’t want to go up .”

I elbow him, snickering.

We wander through the streets of Savannah and hear stories about ghosts, haunted homes, lost children, soldiers, and every other possible spooky-story cliché.

We stop outside a narrow, three-story boutique hotel with shutters like eyelids, half-closed against the dark.

“Room 306,” Mr. Jones lowers his voice, “is never occupied for more than a night. Guests complain of hearing voices—whispers, crying, someone saying their name from behind the closet door. The hotel swears it’s just the plumbing. But the guests? They don’t come back.”

“Plumbing,” Dom says, amused. “Always the villain.”

I smirk, placing my lips close to his ear. “If we hear anything whispering at home tonight, it’s not the pipes...probably me saying dirty things to you.”

He turns and kisses my nose. “Behave.”

Mr. Jones raises his voice, noticing we’ve started to zone him out, just in time for his dramatic crescendo.

“One guest was so distressed,” he announces, “she died in her bed. They said she had a heart attack, probably because she saw a ghost.”

The older woman gasps. I fight the urge to ask if she’s okay—or if she’s just having an overreaction to bad storytelling.

We pass Colonial Park Cemetery, where the guide shines his flashlight through the iron bars and tells us about where two duelists buried, with bullets still lodged in their ribs.

When a branch rustles against the hearse roof, Dom makes a face.

“Bet you’re wishing you’d planned this one now,” I tease.

“I’m plotting revenge,” he replies. “I’m just not sure if it’s going to be sexy or terrifying.”

“Maybe terrifyingly sexy?” I suggest.

We pull up next to the Sorrel-Weed House, supposedly the most haunted building in Savannah.

Mr. Jones tells us about the mistress who hanged herself in the carriage house—and whose sobs can still be heard on humid nights like this.

“Any volunteers to go inside?” the guide asks, theatrically.

I nudge Dom.

He lifts his eyebrows, his eyes wide. “Not going into a haunted house, Moonbeam. I’m man enough to admit that’s a hard pass.”

I grin. “You’re an architect. I’m sure the ghosts will respect you.”

He kisses the side of my neck, slow and deliberately. “If anything pulls me into the shadows and I have a heart attack because of it, I’m haunting you in the shower.”

“Like you did this morning?” I ask huskily, because he gave me a very lovely morning orgasm there.

“ Exactly like that.”

The hearse rolls on.

The night is humid, sticky-sweet, full of lingering ghosts and low-hanging stars.

When the tour ends, we climb out, and Dom takes my hand. “That was wild,” he admits.

“I wanted to make our evening truly special,” I say with mock seriousness.

“You’re a menace.”

“I know.”

“You owe me a blow job for putting me through that.”

“Sure! I’ll throw in a ghost story to add a little spice,” I say, smiling up at him.

“ Menace ,” he repeats, but his voice is soft, happy .

We walk back to the car, fingers linked, bodies buzzing from laughter and just the right amount of excitement.

And I realize that this is what love looks like when it’s healing.

When it’s playful and honest.

It’s perfect…for us.