Page 14 of Demon Loved (The Witches of Mingus Mountain #5)

She tilted her head, amused. After all, Jerome prided itself on its spirit population, so she couldn’t be too startled by his comment. “You’ve seen a ghost?”

“Oh, yes,” he replied, then sipped some of his chianti. “And felt them all over the hotel — and in other places around town.”

“So…you’re psychic?” She didn’t feel too strange asking the question, just because she knew for a fact the ghosts were real, even if she hadn’t directly communicated with any of them herself.

On the other hand, she was a little surprised that Bill would make such an admission when a lot of guys didn’t want to venture into such woo-woo territory.

His shoulders lifted. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. Many people who aren’t psychic have had encounters with ghosts. And, for whatever reason, their presence seems to be very strong here in Jerome.”

That was true. She still didn’t like to take the elevator at the Grand Hotel because it positively gave her the creeps.

Angela had said once that it had been used to transport a lot of very ill people from their rooms to the operating center on the lower level, and some of them had died en route, so that was a lot of negative energy concentrated in a very small space.

She supposed that same concept could be applied to the town as a whole. Sure, there had been plenty of law-abiding people in Jerome back then…but there had also been a whole lot who weren’t.

“You should be glad you didn’t stay at the Connor Hotel,” she remarked, and he sent her a questioning look.

“The hotel above the Spirit Room,” she explained, then went on, “There are lots of stories of people having the covers yanked off their beds, or hearing a baby crying in the hallway when there isn’t anyone there.

And there’s also a ghost kitty that comes and sleeps on your bed, although most people don’t have as much problem with that.

While there are also plenty of ghosts at the Grand Hotel, they generally aren’t quite as in your face. ”

“Then I suppose I made the right choice,” Bill said.

For a moment, his gaze met hers, and once again she got the feeling he wasn’t referring to the actual topic of their conversation.

“If you want to get some actual sleep, yes,” she responded, taking care to keep her tone light. “If you’re trying to do some ghost hunting, then I suppose it might be a toss-up.”

“Ghosts weren’t the main reason I came to Jerome,” he said. “Maybe they’re the cherry on top?”

She couldn’t help smiling at that comment, and then the waiter came by with their appetizer, effectively ending their discussion of that particular topic.

They dished some portions onto the small plates their waiter had also brought along, and when the conversation resumed, Bill had apparently decided to move on to something a little less supernatural.

“How many people will be performing at the folk festival?” he asked.

That question was easy enough to answer. “Twenty,” she replied. “There’ll be eleven of us on Saturday and nine on Sunday, since the festival ends earlier that day. We each get a half-hour set.”

Which, under normal circumstances, wouldn’t make her bat an eye, since she routinely played forty-minute sets or even longer when she was working the tasting rooms. During those sorts of performances, though, she was only providing background music. She wasn’t there to be the center of attention.

Whereas on Saturday, all eyes would be on her.

Deep down, she knew that wasn’t precisely true. People would still be wandering up and down Main Street and visiting the shops and not paying any particular attention to what was happening on the main stage of the festival.

But there would still be plenty who’d come there to listen and nothing more.

She wouldn’t speak about those insecurities to Bill, though, not when she had a hard time admitting them to herself.

“It sounds like quite an honor,” he said, and she shrugged, then realized it probably had looked a little rude to be so dismissive of his comment.

“I suppose so,” she replied. “We do all have to be invited — it’s not the sort of thing you can just audition for. And there are some very good musicians here in the Verde Valley…and Flagstaff and Prescott and Payson. People come from all over.”

“But not Phoenix?” Bill asked, and she couldn’t help smiling.

“We figure Phoenix is big enough that it can take care of itself.”

His mouth quirked in response. “I suppose I can see that.”

They settled down to eat their vegetables — which had been roasted with balsamic vinegar and were positively divine — and soon enough afterward, the waiter came by with their pizza, which was pesto and chicken and was also heavenly.

Bill took a bite before giving an appreciative nod. “I can see why you would want to eat here.”

“I’ve never had a bad meal at Bocce,” Bree replied, which was only the truth. Also, while the food and the setting at The Asylum had been wonderful, it was a lot more relaxed here, and much more her style.

His lips twitched. “Neither have I.”

She shook her head at his joke but couldn’t help smiling a little in response.

Yes, they both seemed more at ease today, although she couldn’t be sure whether that was due to their surroundings or the simple fact that this was their second date, and therefore they’d had a chance already to get a little acquainted with one another.

“I’m sure you must have had lots of good pizza in L.A., though,” she said. “It’s a foodie kind of place, isn’t it?”

For just a second, Bill looked almost panicked. But then he reached for his glass of wine and said in too-casual tones, “There’s lots of great food in Los Angeles. I think this pizza is on par, though.”

A normal enough response. And yet there had been that flash of fear in his deep green eyes, as if she’d asked him a question he wasn’t sure how to answer.

Could it be that he wasn’t from Los Angeles after all?

But why would he lie about such a thing?

Bree had no idea. Okay, if he was from some hillbilly place in the Deep South or something, then maybe he wouldn’t want to talk about it, and yet she didn’t think that was what was going on here.

For one thing, Jerome wasn’t a place with a lot of pretense.

It wasn’t as if Bill was trying to impress someone from Beverly Hills or Palm Beach or whatever.

If he was even trying to impress her at all. She still wasn’t entirely sure about that.

Better to let it go. She supposed she could have completely misinterpreted his expression. It wasn’t as though they’d known each other long enough for her to be confident in reading his moods.

She’d kind of like to be, though.

“I’m sure the chef would be glad to hear that,” she said, and now there was no mistaking the relief that passed over his handsome features.

“Another brother?” he asked, almost teasing, and she just had to smile.

“No,” she replied. “The chef here at Bocce is a woman. She’s been here forever.”

“Which would explain why the food is so excellent.”

After that, they went on to talk about some of the other restaurants in Cottonwood — not, Bree, thought, because she was angling for another date, but just because she thought it seemed like a neutral enough topic.

Bill seemed interested in absorbing as much local area knowledge as possible, so the rest of their meal passed comfortably enough, with neither of them touching on any subjects that were even remotely problematic.

Once they were done with their meal, he suggested that they walk up and down Main Street so he could get a better look at Cottonwood’s historic downtown.

“There’s not a lot open right now,” she warned him.

Well, except the Copper Jackalope, a bar located right next to Bocce, or Kaktus Kate’s, another bar farther down the street.

Not that Bree could really imagine Bill at Kate’s. That was where the bikers tended to hang out, and although she’d gone slumming there with friends a few times and could attest that they made a mean Long Island iced tea, it didn’t seem like his kind of place.

“It’s fine if we can’t go into any of the shops,” he said. “I drove through here on the way up to Jerome, but I wasn’t able to get a good look at anything, so it would be nice to see the stores up close at least.”

“Then we’ll wander,” she replied. “And maybe you can get another taxi to bring you down here tomorrow so you can really explore.”

She supposed she could have offered to be his chauffeur since she didn’t have much going on tomorrow except a voice lesson at three-thirty, but something made her hold back.

Why, she wasn’t sure, except they’d gone out two nights in a row and would be seeing each other pretty much all day on Saturday until she had to go on stage, and that seemed like an awful lot of togetherness with a guy she hadn’t even known two days ago.

Even though some part of her wanted to spend every single minute with him that she could…right up until the time the taxi arrived to take him back to the airport.

Whenever that would be. He’d made it sound as if he planned to stay through at least the weekend, but what would happen after that?

You’ll find out when it happens, she told herself. In the meantime, stop being such a worrywart.

Easier said than done. Maybe they hadn’t discussed anything earth-shattering over dinner, and yet she thought the most significant thing about their meal was how easy it had been, how the conversation had mostly flowed from one topic to another without much awkwardness.

Except when she’d asked him about the food in L.A. No matter how you looked at it, that flash of fear in his expression had been downright mystifying.

Then again, maybe he didn’t go out much but didn’t want to confess that fact to her and sound like a stick-in-the-mud.

There was so much about him she didn’t know…and she had no idea whether she’d learn any of it before it was time for him to leave.

They were about halfway down the block before he said, “Do you play at all these wine-tasting rooms?”

“I do,” she replied, glad of the question, since it was one she could answer honestly. “Not every week, obviously, but I manage to cover all of them within the space of a month, give or take.”

“And in Sedona, and other places around here,” he said, clearly remembering her off-hand comment about that when they’d had dinner at The Asylum the other night.

“All over the Verde Valley.” A thought struck her, and she wondered if it would be too awful if she made the invitation, especially since they’d be spending all day at the folk festival together.

Well, if he didn’t want to go or had other plans, he could just tell her. They might not have known each other very well, but they were still both adults and could act like reasonable people.

“In fact,” she went on, “I’m playing at Alcantara on Sunday afternoon. It’s a gorgeous winery a little south and east of Cottonwood, right on the Verde River. You’ll feel like you’re in Tuscany or something.”

For a second or two, he didn’t reply, and she wondered if she really had put her foot right in it.

But then he smiled and said, “That sounds like fun. It seems as if there are always new and interesting places to explore around here.”

She thought so. Maybe once upon a time, the Verde Valley didn’t have much going on, but there was plenty to see and do now.

Well, as long as you were into wine.

“Great,” she replied, hoping her relief hadn’t seeped into her voice too much. “How about I pick you up around two? I need to get there a little early to set up.”

“That sounds good.” He paused there before saying, his tone almost diffident, “I can help you with your equipment, if you’d like me to.”

Oh, she’d definitely like it. Not just because he’d make the world’s best-looking roadie, but also because hauling her guitars and her amp and her mic and all the assorted other paraphernalia required for her performances could be a little exhausting.

Having someone to lend a hand would make the gig a lot more fun.

“Then it’s a date.”

He was silent for a moment. But then his eyes met hers, and she found her mouth going a little dry at the need she saw in his gaze.

“Yes,” he said softly. “It definitely is.”