Page 34 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

I dug through the crooked stack of boxes in the kitchen corner until I found my favorite cast-iron skillet—wedged between a broken colander and the dented sorry excuse of a wok.

“How do you like your eggs?” I asked, cracking a few into the pan like I knew what the hell I was doing.

“Anyway, you’re making them is fine.” He said, wandering into the dining room, and set his mug on the table with a quiet clink. “So, uh—have you heard anything else… since that night?”

I paused, the spatula hovering mid-air.

“No, why?”

The answer came out too fast.

I stirred harder than necessary, folding the eggs in on themselves like it was some how their fault he didn’t believe me.

Here we go again. Another round of “Maggie, you’re crazy,” disguised as small talk.

I grabbed two plates and scooped the eggs onto them, adding an extra aggressive shake of black pepper to his—just in case subtlety was dead this morning.

“Oh, no reason,” Graham said, his tone too light to be casual, especially coming from him. “Just curious if it was a onetime freak incident or not.”

I could hear him poking around in the dining room, peeking at my shit like it was somehow going to give him answers to the craziness he thought I had.

“It wasn’t,” I said flatly as I set the plates on the table.

I turned back to the kitchen for utensils and napkins, muttering, “Sorry, no sausage or OJ.”

“This is fine. Thank you.”He sat inspecting the eggs like they might explode.

I took a seat next to him, not across—partly because I didn’t want to stare him down directly. Mostly because I already had enough adrenaline lurking in my veins from the club, and I still wasn’t sure if I wanted to slap him or straddle him.

“I have a question,” I said, stabbing my fork into the mound of eggs on my plate.

He looked up, cautiously.

“Why is it so impossible for you to believe me?”

Graham shoved a bite of eggs into his mouth, chewed slowly, then swallowed like he was gearing up for a verbal takedown.

“It’s not impossible,” he said finally. “I just didn’t see it, that’s all.”

His eyes locked on mine—hard, flat and emotionless.

I knew that look.

I’d seen it at the club, just before he pulled me out of that pack of assholes—the moment where fury and fear collided behind his lashes, and he masked it all with apathy.

“Really? Because I think you did see it. I think you knew exactly what happened. But you can’t bring yourself to admit it.”

He froze mid-chew.

“I think it scared you,” I whispered. “Not the ghost. Not me. You.”

He swallowed. “…and what the hell makes you think that?”

The light hit his face just right—cutting across that impossible jaw, catching the twitch in his brow. His gaze flicked to the window behind me like he was looking for an exit.

“What are you hiding?” I asked.

He didn’t answer.

Just stared like I’d pried open something he’d buried too deep to name.

“I’m not entirely sure yet,” I said, voice soft but steady “But whatever the reason is, it’s blocking you from using your full potential. As a cop. As a detective—like you said you wanted to be.”

Graham let out a low, bitter laugh and dropped his shoulders. “Seriously? Max, come on. What are you analyzing my performance now?”

“No,” I said, sitting up straighter. “Think about it. If you can’t even humor the idea that something unexplained happened—something paranormal—how can you ever be certain you’ve collected all the evidence?

Sometimes the answer isn’t logical. Sometimes it’s not visible.

Sometimes…it doesn’t make sense at all.”

He looked down at his plate, jaw flexing.

“I believe in the unbelievable. I just don’t think what I saw that night was it.”

“Really?” I leaned in. “Because the look on your face at the club told a different story.”

His head snapped up.

I met his stare head-on. “You say you didn’t see anything, Graham. But I watched you freeze when that ghost came through. Just like you froze at the club when I danced with those guys.” I scoffed. “You shut down every time something makes you feel. Doesn’t matter if it’s fear… or me.”

Graham scraped the last of his eggs into his mouth and stood like the table had personally offended him.

“Thanks for breakfast,” he muttered, moving to the door, grabbing his jacket off the end table in the foyer. “Shift starts tomorrow. I’ll see you at seven. Two guys on exterior. I’m interior. Leave the garage open and move your car—we need room for the interceptor.”

He had one hand on the knob when I snapped.

“Come to our séance tonight.”

He stopped. Turned halfway. Stared.

“Excuse me?”

“Séance,” I said, standing now, the chair legs scraping against the hardwood. “Katie and I are doing one at nine. You should be there.”

He blinked at me like I’d just suggested a human sacrifice in the living room.

“And why,” he said slowly, “would I do that?”

“Because if you’re so convinced you didn’t see anything, then you’ve got nothing to be afraid of.” I crossed my arms. “Sit in, observe, and when nothing happens, you can roll your eyes and go back to pretending you’ve got all the answers.”

He scoffed. “Max?—”

“But if something does happen … ” I stepped closer. “Then maybe you stop gaslighting yourself into thinking reality’s only what fits inside your police report.”

He studied me for a long second, jaw tight, eyes unreadable.

“And what happens when nothing shows?” he finally asked.

I shrugged. “Then you never have to hear me bring it up again.”

Silence. Just the soft jingle of Chester’s bell as he finished the eggs I’d abandoned.

“You’re the one with tarot cards and divination paraphernalia tatted on your body. What’s that about?”

Graham pinched the bridge of his nose, then exhaled forcefully. “Oh—for fuck’s sake. Fine,” he muttered. “But, only if it will shut you up.”

Excitement fluttered just under the surface of my skin.

“But if this turns into some glittery witchy shit…” he pointed a warning finger. “I’m out.”

“Bring holy water if it makes you feel better,” I said, not missing a beat.

I expected him to leave then. Instead, he stepped in fast and close, closer than he’d been since the bar. My chest pressed into his torso, he was so close I had to tilt my head all the way back just to meet his dark, unreadable gaze.

“You are the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met,” he muttered with a slightly lopsided grin smeared on his face.

And before I could even ask what that meant, he dipped his head and kissed my forehead.

It wasn’t sweet or soft though—it was like he didn’t even realize he’d done it.

Then, he just left me in the doorway, confused and short-circuiting.

I couldn’t remember if I breathed after that.

And if I did, it sure as hell wasn’t natural.

Graham

The truck droned as I turned onto the road leading to my cabin on seven secluded acres, one hand clutching the wheel, the other twitching like it wanted to punch something.

Or touch something it shouldn’t.

She kissed my fucking forehead.

No— I kissed hers.

Jesus.

What the hell was I thinking?

I needed to let her go before she wrecked me. Or worse.

I could still smell her—the strawberry, the vanilla… all the fucking sweetness. I didn’t even like strong scents on a woman. They turned me off. Made me think they were trying too hard when they layered on all that smelly shit. But on her… it smelled like sweet mother-fucking temptation.

I pulled into my driveway.

God, Maggie.

I adjusted in my seat.

Too warm. Too tight.

Too everything.

I needed to work out. Take a few swings at the punching bag.

Or shower.

Or—jerk off and get it the hell out of my system before I showed up at her house with a raging hard-on—again.

I parked the truck, shut it off, and just sat there.

I should’ve gone inside, showered, maybe did a few weighted chin lifts. Anything to get her out of my fucking head.

But I couldn’t move.

Not after the way she looked at me.

Not after I kissed her fucking forehead like a priest giving last rites.

Not after the sound she made in that shower.

Goddamn it. Just let her go.

I growled under my breath and shoved the door open.

The air outside was warm today. Clean. Mocking.

Didn’t bother locking the truck—never did. Just walked straight to the tree line, boots grinding in the gravel, fists clenched like they believed they could hold back what was coming.

I unzipped my jeans one-handed and shoved them down just past my hips, just enough to free what had been aching since I pulled her away from those assholes.

I braced my left forearm against the nearest tree and leaned in until it scraped my skin through the fabric of my shirt.

This wasn’t romantic.

This wasn’t cutesy, or some other shit like that.

This was fucking necessary.

I didn’t even wait, just gripped the base of my throbbing cock and stroked. Not for pleasure—for escape.

But it didn’t work.

My brain didn’t go blank.

It went straight to her.

Straight to Maggie.

The way her hips rolled into mine on the dance floor. The way she whispered how I’d melt in her mouth the second her lips touched me. The way she sounded upstairs when she thought I couldn’t hear her. Wrecked and breathless.

The bark bit deeper into my arm. My thighs trembled. I didn’t care.

I bit my bottom lip so hard it almost bled.

My skin prickled, and my entire body flushed with sweat as my dick swelled even more, surging with anticipation. I focused on my head, rubbing my thumb over the soft skin, applying rhythmic pressure to the sensitive spots.

I needed this out of me.

Out of my bloodstream.

Out of my goddamn lungs.

I inhaled sharp through my teeth and stroked harder.

Beads of sweat built. The sensitivity increased as I pictured her thick thighs wrapped around my waist and my dick pressing past her lips into her tight, perfect pussy.

The adrenaline surged at the thought of the moans she’d make while I ran my tongue over her peaked nipples.

I pretended my hand was her, and the sensation of sliding in and then back out to tease her pink clit with my?—

Fuck! I was gonna come.

A couple low groans ripped from me as I arched my head back and unloaded on what I could only imagine was a chipmunk’s front porch.

When I came, it was violent. My body seized. Hard. Probably pulled a hamstring. Probably beat myself raw.

Panting, I braced both arms against the tree and pressed my forehead to the bark, chest heaving, heart beating loud in my ears, dick still throbbing because that wasn’t enough .

Nothing about it felt good. Not really. Not the ‘release’—because it didn’t actually feel like a fucking release.

It was supposed to be damage control, the kind that brought this post nut clarity everyone talked about.

But it didn’t fucking help. Instead it left me embarrassed that no matter what I did, she was stuck in my mind, front and center.

And somehow, now I wanted her more.