Page 26 of Ghosted (The Ravenwood #1)

I tilt my head back and forth. “I mean, you can just stand in there for a bit, smell your fancy bath products, and then move along.” It’s only after I’ve said it that I remember he can hardly smell anything and feel like an insensitive dolt.

When he scans me with an amused tilt to his lips, I suddenly feel awkward at the thought of watching him shower, even if it would just be a pantomime version. I’ve only kissed the man twice. That doesn’t give me enough leeway to leer at him in the shower. I think that requires at least third base.

I spin on my heel and decide to check out the paperback spread open on his nightstand.

Anything to distract me from Dean, and bases, and the thought of him slick and smelling good while we race through them together.

My nostrils flare at the faint scent of his products heated up by the water.

Clean sandalwood, musk, and something deliciously spicy.

I decide to breathe through my mouth to stop myself from joining him.

I pick up the book, careful not to lose his place, even though I doubt he’ll pick it up again.

The thought makes me briefly, sharply sad, so I set the book down again the way I found it without even so much as reading the back cover.

I sit down heavily on his bed and decide to mindlessly scroll social media for a bit, if only to distract my brain from any contradictory sexy or sad thoughts.

The shower turns off, and Dean strides across the room, gliding toward what I presume is his walk-in closet.

He’s humming something almost recognizable, and it immediately puts me at ease.

“This is the point where I pick a pretentious, but well-fitted suit and rue the day I decided to do a job where I couldn’t wear a t-shirt to work,” he calls from the depths of his closet.

I laugh under my breath at that and shake my head, definitely not waiting with bated breath to see if he’ll emerge wearing one of those sexy—er, well-fitted suits.

He flits out of the closet in a deep-navy suit tailored to fit him perfectly, and I nearly choke on my tongue.

I want him to bend me over… something. Anything.

A desk would be ideal, but I am sitting on a bed, so that seems like an appropriate option.

Should I just roll over now and lift my hips? Will he get the hint?

“Are you going to have me for breakfast, Alderwood?” he teases, needlessly adjusting his already perfect cuffs.

“I think you’re giving me a thing for suits, Crawford,” I say nonchalantly.

I stand from the bed, deciding that now’s probably not the best time to try to figure out how to sleep with a ghost, considering we’re supposed to be sleuthing.

If I’m being honest, I’m kind of prolonging being back in the garage because it was awful to be in the place where he died.

I’m not holding out hope that the whole routine song and dance will do anything significant for his memory until we get in there.

But I’m selfishly enjoying this time with him.

“Good thing I have at least ten in my repertoire that I can conjure from memory,” he says, suddenly in front of me and trailing a tingly finger down my cheek.

I tilt my face up, fully in his thrall, and he leans down to brush a lingering kiss to my lips.

I take a moment to revel in the feel of his plush, otherworldly lips on mine.

I can’t believe I can experience a kiss with him again.

He gives me a final, playful peck and pulls away.

“Sorry, you’re hard to resist when you look at me like that. ”

“Like what?” I ask.

“Like you want me. Despite all this. You wear your want so clearly on your face, Rae. Right here,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over my lower lip, still tender from my biting it .

“Oh,” I reply, coloring slightly at knowing my thoughts are so obvious on my face.

“I like it,” he says, smiling his crooked, dimpled smile.

“What’s next? Protein shake and a hundred push-ups?

” I quip, trying desperately to move us forward and onto more even ground.

He takes the hint, dropping his hand and backing up a little.

I know I said I wanted to enjoy this little sliver of happiness, but every time he kisses me—touches me, even—I feel like I can’t breathe.

These moments feel like cupping my hands around water, watching it trickle from between my fingers, no matter how hard I try to seal the gaps. I can’t stop the ticking countdown in my head. How long will I have him? Have this? A couple of weeks? A month?

Every touch is better than the last, binding me to him atom by atom. When he leaves, he’ll take a part of me with him. I need to minimize the coming hemorrhage.

“Please, on a Sunday when I’m forced to work? I eat a peanut butter-waffle sandwich, dunked in my coffee. And then I drag myself to the office and try not to think about all the other things I’d rather be doing.”

“A peanut butter-waffle sandwich?” I ask, mildly disgusted.

He grins like the Cheshire Cat and says, “Well, since I can’t eat it, you’ll have to so I can get the sense memory.” He disappears out of the room too fast for me to track, but I can hear him cackling all the way down the stairs.

Stupid ghosts.