Page 6 of Ghost Business (Boneyard Key #2)

“Well, if that’s the case, running her out of town should be easy.

” Eric sounded far too cheerful at the prospect.

“I mean, the script’s been honed to a T.

And let’s face it, Tristan. You’re good at this.

I see how you come alive when you put that hat on.

It’s like you’re back in college all over again. ”

“Yeah.” The memory was like taking a good deep breath, the kind that let his shoulders relax.

He’d gone to college for a business degree, sure, but he’d also snuck in a theatre minor as a secret fuck you to his dad.

Those times that he’d spent onstage had been the happiest of his life.

And the top hat he wore when he led the ghost tours was the perfect souvenir of those better days.

“So what’s she like? This other ghost tour.”

“Sophie?” She appeared instantly in his mind’s eye, dark hair gleaming under the streetlight.

“She’s cute.” Understatement. “Tiny little thing. Glasses, so she has that brainy hot librarian look. Dark, dark eyes, shiny like liquid? Her hair’s dark too, and curly.

And long, right about here…” He twisted in an inelegant motion, trying to show with his hand, drawing a line just under his shoulder blades.

As he straightened up again a long silence fell, broken when Eric coughed a smile into his fist. “I, uh. I was asking about her tour, dumbass. What’s her tour like?”

“Oh.” Now it was Tristan’s turn for some awkward throat clearing. Good thing he’d stopped talking before describing her smile: coy and inviting, the kind that made you want to know what her mouth tasted like. “I didn’t see too much of it, honestly.” His attention had been on that hair, that smile.

“That’s your next assignment, then. Check out her tour and report back. See if her stories are any good; if there’s anything we can, you know, borrow.”

“Borrow?” Tristan pressed a dramatic hand to his chest. “You just said our script is perfect.”

“Nothing wrong with improving on perfection, you know. Do a little sneaky recon and let me know.”

“I can do that.” Tristan cast longing eyes toward his takeout box. He really wanted to finish that chicken before it got cold. “Anything else?”

“No…” But Eric’s unsure tone made Tristan cut his eyes back to his laptop screen, faint alarm bells going off in his head. Eric opened his mouth, closed it, then finally spoke all in a rush. “It’s just…how long do you really think you’ll want to do this?”

“What do you mean?” Tristan frowned. “I thought we had a good thing going here.”

“We have a great thing going here. You know I’m never happier than when I’m elbow-deep in spreadsheets.

” On anyone else that would have sounded like sarcasm, but Eric really was that kind of nerd.

“It’s you I’m worried about. All this traveling you do.

Never in one place longer than a couple months.

And if you win this bet with your dad, you’re signing up for more of the same.

Indefinitely. You sure you don’t want a home and a life? ”

“Homes are overrated,” Tristan said, “and I like this life just fine.” But he looked around as he spoke, at the stark white walls of this condo.

He’d seen the listing: Fully furnished. Technically, that was true; there was furniture, and the kitchen was stocked with top-of-the-line appliances and cookware.

But the place felt cold. Clinical. The hardwood floors made his footsteps echo.

He sat on an enormous white sofa that gleamed from its spot between the glass-and-chrome coffee table and matching end tables.

The only ornamentation was a giant conch shell—white, of course—sitting in the middle of the coffee table like a remnant of the ocean visible from the big, floor-to-ceiling windows.

This place screamed accommodation . Nothing about it felt like a home.

“Do you, though?” Eric tilted his head, and even through the questionable quality of the video call, Tristan felt studied.

“I just…” He sighed. “You’ve been locked in this…

contest or whatever with your dad for what, your entire adult life?

Those first couple years were exciting, but do you really want to be in it for the long haul? ”

Defensiveness rose like hackles on the back of Tristan’s neck. “What makes you think I don’t?”

“Nothing,” Eric said quickly. “Nothing. I just want to make sure this is something you actually want to do, and not something you’re doing to prove your dad wrong.

Don’t get me wrong, that’s a great incentive on its own, but we’ve built something real here.

Something that employs a fair amount of people, and—”

“And you’re worried you’re going to lose your job if I lose my deal with Dad.” That defensiveness made his words snappier than he’d intended.

“No. Well, yes. I mean, of course I don’t want to lose my job. But I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about every location we’ve opened over the last five years. Four or five employees in each one. If you lose this bet and the business folds, that’s a lot of people out of a job. Not just me.”

Tristan’s snappishness drained out of him in a rush, as the pressure of keeping those people employed settled on his shoulders. “Yeah.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know.”

“Look.” Eric’s voice softened, and Tristan peeked up at him through his fingers. “I want you happy. That’s all. And you’re not going to be happy if you spend your whole life trying to outrun your father.”

“I’m not trying to outrun him. I’m trying to…” What was he trying to do? Sometimes Tristan wasn’t sure.

Eric’s words echoed off the white walls of the condo, long after they’d disconnected the call.

Tristan grabbed his takeout box and a beer from the fridge, settling himself on the glass-and-chrome (this place was nothing if not consistent) patio set on the balcony.

The chicken was still warm although the fries were questionable, and the beer was cold.

With the lights of the balcony off, he watched the palm trees rustle in the moonlight and, further out, the undulation of the Gulf.

Maybe Eric was right. Since getting Ghouls Night Out up and running as an actual business, he’d settled into a life and a routine that was unchanging in the way it always changed.

Sure, he had his own place—a Manhattan apartment that was more of a glorified storage unit with a bed in it.

It was where he crashed while he was in New York, taking in Broadway shows and catching up with friends.

Most of his things were there, but it was as much a home to him as this condo in Boneyard Key.

Most people his age had settled into their adult lives by now.

A place to call home, friends to hang out with on a regular basis.

Maybe even a spouse, or kids. Hell, even Eric had moved in with his boyfriend a year or so back.

Tristan never had a problem making friends, but they were always temporary, since he was always temporary.

A relationship was out of the question, since he never stopped moving. Who’d want to sign on for that?

Enough. He had a tour to plan. Time to get started.

Pull up the script template he used at all the Ghouls Night Out locations, and start plugging in specific spots for Boneyard Key.

That bait shack by the pier looked like it could be haunted; that might be a good place to start.

And maybe one or two of those cottages that lined the beach…

perfect for his favorite story, about a shipwrecked pirate and his lost lady love.

Probably should steer clear of Hallowed Grounds, though, since Sophie ran her tour out of there.

It would take some careful planning to make sure their tours didn’t cross in the night.

Hmm. Maybe Eric was right about the sneaky recon. Knowing the complete route Sophie’s tour took would help him plan his, right? It was all for the good of the tour. Nothing to do with potentially seeing Sophie again. Spending an hour or two in her company.

Definitely not.