Page 28 of Ghost Business (Boneyard Key #2)

Eighteen

Turned out, Cassie loved red wine.

“Oh, yes, please.” Her eyes lit up as Tristan handed over the bottle.

“Is it a good one? I admit I’m not much of a red wine guy.

” He asked the question absently as he stepped over the threshold.

He was already in love with her house, just from standing on the porch and ringing the bell.

It was genuinely historic, not something that was built in the last five years with a historic aesthetic.

The wood slats of the front porch were just the slightest bit slanted, and there was a look to the weathered but tidy siding that only came from time and good craftsmanship.

“No idea.” She grinned and waved him inside. “But it’s wine, and it’s red. That’s good enough for me.”

He couldn’t believe that this was where Cassie lived: the cool little beachside cottage he’d given his pirate story to.

One of his favorite stories for one of his favorite houses.

Whenever he led the tour past the house, he found himself lingering just a little longer than necessary, taking in the scent of the cabbage roses that bloomed against the picket fence.

The lights in the living room were always on, and the front windows were always open, even now that summer had set in.

The lace curtains moving in the breeze seemed to wave at him every time he walked by.

Tonight the windows were closed, and inside looked just like he’d imagined: cozy and comfortable.

It smelled warm, despite the air conditioning—like basil and garlic.

As he followed Cassie into the house, he glanced into the living room, looking for those familiar curtains.

There they were: hanging against the closed front windows, a battered leather recliner nearby.

Cassie’s decor was mostly modern, set against the backdrop of details like crown molding and built-in bookshelves in the living room.

The hardwood floor creaked pleasantly under his feet, the melody of a historic home.

If his father had bought this house, he’d have ripped it all out. Updated it to a modern clean look, as soulless as the condo Tristan was staying in. But Tristan loved this house just the way it was.

Nick was at the counter in the kitchen, plating a loaf of garlic bread he’d obviously just taken out of the oven.

“Hey, glad you could make it.” He tossed a friendly smile over his shoulder. “You want a beer?” Nick moved to the fridge—an older one that was covered in little words on magnets. Tristan hadn’t seen a magnetic poetry set since his college days.

“Tristan brought wine.” Cassie held up the bottle.

“Even better.” Nick nudged the fridge closed and reached for the corkscrew.

Dinner was simple: baked pasta and garlic bread, and the red wine had gone with it perfectly.

The conversation was just as simple: small talk about their lives, where they’d gone to college, careers.

It felt like equal parts dinner and job interview—that awkward first time hanging out with new friends, looking for common ground.

Finally, Cassie put down her fork, folding her arms on the table, and Tristan instantly went on alert. She’d had that look before, in the café, when he and Sophie had struck whatever deal they were currently in the middle of. “So,” she said. “Sophie.”

Dammit. Dread mixed with pasta in Tristan’s stomach; he didn’t want to think about Sophie.

Nothing made sense in his head when it came to her.

He was supposed to be focused on ruining her, professionally.

But what he really wanted was to ruin her in much more fun ways.

When he thought about her now, all he could see were her mussed curls and her kiss-swollen mouth when she’d pulled away from him in front of their doors.

He’d messed up that hair. He’d kissed that mouth.

He’d wanted to keep doing both of those things, but then she’d fled.

And then she’d avoided him. This was not a town that hid people easily; Tristan knew when he was being avoided. So while his thoughts—and often his dreams—had been on fire with the memory of Sophie in his arms, his waking life had been depressingly Sophie-free.

But he couldn’t escape this line of questioning here at Cassie’s table, so he might as well dive in. “Sophie,” he repeated, fortifying himself with a healthy sip of wine. “I’m familiar.”

Amusement played around her mouth. “From what I hear, y’all have been getting quite familiar.”

Heat crawled up the back of Tristan’s neck.

She knew. Of course she knew; she was Sophie’s friend, and friends talked.

He wanted to know everything Sophie had told her.

No, he didn’t. He didn’t want to know anything.

But before he could speak, a spoon resting on the edge of the table clattered to the floor.

Cassie blinked and broke her gaze from Tristan’s, as though the spoon had broken some kind of spell.

“Oh, right. Sorry, Sarah. I got off track for a minute there.” She bent to pick it up, glancing over her shoulder at the fridge.

Tristan followed her gaze, an automatic reaction, but froze.

Because the random words on the fridge weren’t random anymore.

Now they formed a kind of starburst pattern, with a few words in the middle, drawing attention.

Tell Him

Story Wrong

“When…” The word came out a croak, so Tristan cleared his throat and tried again. “When did you move those words around?”

Cassie placed the spoon in a very deliberate action, leaving it on the edge of the table again. “So, I’m afraid we had an ulterior motive, inviting you over.” She gestured toward the fridge. “Tristan, I’d like you to meet Sarah Hawkins.”

“Your refrigerator is named Sarah Hawkins?” That weird swimmy feeling in his brain was back, like when the Parmesan cheese had appeared out of nowhere at Poltergeist Pizza. Something was happening here that his conscious brain wasn’t ready to handle yet, and his lizard brain wanted to flee from.

Nick snorted. “You gotta admit, Cass, that makes about as much sense.”

“Point taken. Okay, let me start over.” She folded her hands on the table, looking serious. “Sarah Hawkins lived in this house before I did. Like, about a hundred years before I did.”

Then it clicked. “Sophie’s story,” he said. “On her ghost tour. I remember.”

Cassie nodded. “Sarah doesn’t like you.”

“Me?” That brought him up short. He was fine—well, not fine , but you know—with Sophie not liking him. And her friends by extension. But an incorporeal spirit, that until this moment he wasn’t even aware existed? That was a new one. “What did I do?”

“You’re making shit up in front of her house.” Nick was obviously also on Sarah Hawkins’s side. “Telling people what, that a pirate lived here?”

“No,” Tristan said. “Not a pirate. A pirate’s lover lived here.” Did no one listen to the story he was telling?

“Oh, my mistake,” Nick drawled, rolling his eyes in Cassie’s direction.

“I don’t mean here specifically. I didn’t research this house; I have no idea who used to live here.”

“Obviously,” Cassie broke in, but Tristan wasn’t finished.

“I use it in all my ghost tour locations, and the crowds always love it. It’s tragic, but romantic at the same time. It’s always been my favorite story.”

“Not Sarah.” Nick shook his head. “Sarah doesn’t like it at all.”

“She…” He looked uncertainly from the fridge to Cassie and Nick and then back again. The swimmy feeling was still there, but had receded as pieces fell into place. “So you’re not saying that Sarah Hawkins used to live here, but that she, uh. She still does?”

Cassie nodded. “She after- lives here.”

The spoon fell to the floor again, and this time Tristan ducked down to pick it up.

“Here. It keeps falling off the table.” He tossed the spoon to the center of the table, next to the empty platter of garlic bread.

There. It shouldn’t roll off the table anymore.

It wasn’t his place to tell Cassie that her kitchen was obviously on a slope.

But Cassie’s attention was back on the fridge, where the words had changed.

Story Wrong

Lies Bad

“I know, babe.” Cassie sighed kindly in the direction of the fridge before turning back to Tristan. “Look, it’s not entirely your fault. She’s sensitive to her story being told wrong,” she said apologetically. “And she insisted on letting you know, and wanted to tell you herself.”

“Tell me herself.” Tristan knew he was doing that thing again, where his brain had stopped forming thoughts and all he could do was parrot back what people were saying to him.

But he was currently processing a hell of a lot of information.

Information that didn’t feel real, even though it was literally right in front of his face.

“Yep.” Cassie motioned to the fridge. “The words. That’s Sarah.

” She was so matter-of-fact about the whole thing.

This had to have freaked her out too at some point, right?

The rational part of his mind tried to work out a way that she and Nick were playing an elaborate prank on him.

Something that involved distracting him by throwing that spoon on the floor…

But as he watched, the spoon in the middle of the table, the one he’d picked up and placed himself, rotated slowly until the handle of it clinked against the platter. He couldn’t explain that away with an uneven floor.

“That’s Sarah too.” He indicated the spoon. “Right?”

Cassie nodded. “That’s how she gets my attention. Lets me know she has something to say. Otherwise I’d be staring at the fridge all day.”

“Right,” Tristan said. “Because that would be weird.” He took a deep breath, then he did something he never imagined he’d do. He apologized to a refrigerator.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Please believe me when I say that it’s nothing personal. I’m not trying to slander you, or tell stories about you that aren’t true. Honestly, Sarah…” He turned to Cassie. “Sarah? Mrs.Hawkins? What should I call her?”

“Call her Mean Mrs.Hawkins,” Nick said. “She loves that.” He jerked then, knee bumping the table, and Tristan nearly came out of his skin before he realized that Nick had been hit the old-fashioned way, by Cassie kicking him under the table.

“Sarah is fine,” she said. “She was elderly when she died, but she doesn’t really present as an old lady.”

Tristan nodded carefully. “I get that. I’m coming up on thirty, but in my mind I sometimes feel like I just got out of college, you know? Maybe it’s the same way for ghosts?” The rational part of his brain remained mind-blown, unable to comprehend a serious conversation that involved actual ghosts.

But that was where he was now: in a serious conversation that involved an actual ghost. He turned back to the fridge, as though talking to the words made the most sense.

“Anyway, Sarah, all the stories I tell are made-up. I’m not trying to educate the public here.

I’m just telling stupid stories to tourists.

And I have to tell you, the pirate one’s my favorite.

Every time I put a tour together, I save it for my favorite location.

As soon as I got to Boneyard Key I fell in love with this house.

With the roses in the front yard, and the way it backs up to the water…

it made me think of romance and pirate ships. ”

The refrigerator didn’t respond. It was a marvel that Tristan expected it to.

“Don’t look at the fridge,” Cassie said.

“Why not?” He brought his gaze back to Cassie.

“We think she doesn’t like to be watched while she’s moving the words.” Across the table Nick was leaned back in his chair, finishing off the wine in his glass.

That was a good idea. Tristan reached for his own glass, but before he could take a sip, the spoon clinked again.

Dark Hair Girl Glasses

Story Real

“She’s talking about Sophie,” Nick said, as though Tristan couldn’t put that together on his own. “Sophie tells the real story. The history of the house and Sarah. She likes that one better.”

“I understand why.” Tristan nodded slowly. He was becoming a pretty big fan of Sophie himself.

“But I think she gets it,” Cassie said. “That you’re not trying to tell a real story. You’re not slandering her name or anything. It’s just fiction. Right?”

“Exactly.” He nodded emphatically at the fridge. “Is it okay that I go on telling it, now that you know, and I know, that we’re putting something over on the tourists?” It was suddenly very, very important that he get the approval of a long-dead woman.

After a few moments, it appeared that he had it.

I Like Your Hat

He’d take it.