Page 25 of Ghost Business (Boneyard Key #2)
But he hadn’t known that Sophie was right there, on the other side of the wall.
So everything had changed. Every step outside his door was fraught with potential.
Would they run into each other? Would she kiss him again if they did?
(Okay, that second one was doubtful, based on the whole running-away portion of the evening.) Sophie’s door remained closed and silent every time he walked past it, as ordinary as all the other doors on their floor, yet in his mind it was ringed in a warm glow.
Sophie lives here. Saturday night’s tour was packed, but he could barely enjoy it.
Every nerve ending was on alert, searching the downtown streets for a sign of Sophie.
But just like the empty condo breezeway, he didn’t catch sight of her.
Monday morning there were two notifications on his phone. A text from Nick Royer ( Dinner on Wednesday? ), and a news notification. The Start of Hurricane Season: What You Need to Know.
Hurricanes had a season? Tristan tapped on it, but the linked article was behind a paywall, so he clicked his phone off again—no one had time for that. Then he fired off a response to accept Nick’s invitation while his coffee brewed.
But he couldn’t stop wondering—what did he need to know about hurricane season?
He’d never lived somewhere where that was a thing he needed to know.
A little googling helped. Hurricane season ran from June first to November thirtieth, with the peak falling somewhere between August and October.
He would be here for most of that, so that news was alarming.
Another article showed him a checklist of supplies he was supposed to keep on hand.
A gallon of water per person per day. Enough nonperishable food to last for a few days.
Flashlights and extra batteries. A radio that somehow powered with a hand crank.
The list went on, and Tristan hadn’t realized that living in Florida also apparently meant preparing for the apocalypse every summer.
Was this what made living in Florida so crazy?
Spending so much of your time waiting for the big storm that was going to wipe you out? It sounded exhausting.
He tried to put it out of his mind as he pulled up the spreadsheets that Eric had sent over that morning.
Spokane had had a great month and had absolutely cleaned up on Memorial Day weekend.
It was enough to make up for the fact that Flagstaff had apparently had no tourist traffic, so all in all they’d come out ahead.
Ahead was good. Ahead meant profit. Ahead meant a successful company.
But would it be enough to satisfy Sebastian Martin when the time came?
Enough. Tristan closed his laptop with a snap.
He was too much in his own head, so he grabbed his keys and headed out, but doom lingered in the corners of his mind as he stepped outside—half about the future of Ghouls Night Out, and half about hurricane season.
New things to worry about were always neat.
But it wasn’t time to panic. About either of those things.
It took half a block to remember why going outside in the early afternoon in June was a bad idea; his T-shirt was already sticking to his back, and every breath felt like a wet towel was wrapped around his head.
He’d planned to walk downtown, but once he hit Spooky Brew on the corner of Palmetto and Beachside, he stopped for an iced coffee and a few deep breaths of air-conditioning.
Once his damp T-shirt had become good and cold he set out again, taking a right and heading for the corner grocery instead.
Sure, downtown was just up the road, but in this heat it was too far.
The Supernatural Market must have gotten the same memo about hurricane season.
There was a huge display just inside the entrance.
Pallets of gallon-size water jugs shared space with jumbo-size packs of batteries next to another display of artfully arranged canned ravioli and Spam.
Oh, shit. Maybe he should be panicking after all.
He grabbed a cart and had loaded three gallons of water and six cans of ravioli into it before he realized he wasn’t fighting anyone for anything.
A glance around showed three other people in the store, milling around like it was any other Monday, without so much as a single gallon jug of water in their carts.
He was the only one grabbing supplies like a frantic doomsday prepper.
The cashier didn’t even seem concerned. “That time of year again, huh,” was all he said as he waved the scanner gun over each gallon of water.
Tristan nodded like he knew exactly what he was doing, but his bravado was long gone once he’d lugged everything home.
Grocery bags with water and canned goods counted as a workout, and by the time he’d put everything away, he wondered what the hell he’d been thinking. He didn’t even like canned ravioli.
Oh, well. The store had a decent wine selection, so he’d grabbed something for Wednesday night. Hopefully Cassie liked red wine.