Page 32 of Ghosted (The Ravenwood #1)

Dean pouts. “You don’t even want to hear the rest of my role-play script?”

“Not particularly.”

“It’s really good though. Very sexy.”

“I’m sure… Wait, do you actually have a script?”

Dean sighs and says, “In the afterlife, I have much more free time than I know what to do with.”

“So you spend your free time thinking up role-play scripts instead of wandering the Taj Mahal or the Pyramids?”

“Has that been an option this whole time?” he questions.

“I… honestly don’t know. You could always try it. Visualize it on a map or something and see where you end up. I have a feeling that travel is much different for you.”

He shakes his head. “No, thank you. I’d rather spend all my free time either with you or thinking up very sexy role play starring you.”

“You’d rather picture me naked than see the Seven Wonders of the World up close?” I ask playfully .

“Some could say you’re the eighth wonder,” he replies with a toothy grin.

I roll my eyes. “Okay, come on, Romeo. Let’s get this done and then maybe we can spend some time working on your next script.”

“As long as it involves you bent over this desk, I’m down,” he proposes with a smirk.

I shake my head at him and try to think of anything other than getting bent over the damn desk.

Because if I think about it too hard, we really won’t make it out of here without me ending up with my jeans around my ankles.

Sigh. Focus!

“Okay. So. Walk me through your day at work. I’ll sit here, so you can go about your tasks without distraction.”

“You’re always distracting, Alderwood,” he says, standing from his desk and smoothing down his already perfect tie.

I smile, looking down at my phone to try and hide it.

“First things first, I need to go make coffee,” he states. “And you need to come with me. Sense memory and all that. I need to actually go through the process of making the coffee, and I don’t want it to go to waste. It’s a Nespresso,” he says gravely, as if that’s supposed to mean something to me.

I shake my head in exasperation but comply.

He’s determined to have me along for the ride the whole way through.

As much as I want to be hands-off to allow him to remember things, I also know he needs the support of having me close, even if he’s unwilling to say it and would rather joke around or flirt to distract both of us.

I follow him out into the main office and down a walkway to the right.

The whole place is eerily quiet; I get the same feeling I had in high school when I’d walk back to the student parking lot at night after putting the yearbook together.

You know it’s supposed to be bustling with noise and people, so when it’s silent, the energy feels wrong.

Lifeless. As if the whole building is holding its breath in wait.

I shake off the chill from being in here (mostly) alone, and we enter a decent-sized break room.

I’m impressed with the stock of snacks and drinks on display.

They have everything from healthy granola and fruit to Rice Krispies Treats and chips.

It makes me soften a bit towards Jack. He cares about his employees, or at the very least doesn’t want them going hungry.

Like the crown jewel, a giant coffee machine sits in the middle of the long countertop against the back wall. I swear there’s even a spotlight shining on it. I scrutinize the ceiling above it and—yep, spotlight.

“So, you guys really like this thing, huh?” I ask skeptically.

“When you don’t want to run out of the office every few hours for a decent cup of coffee, it’s great. It doesn’t top an actual pulled espresso, but it’s a good substitute,” he says, lovingly rubbing the machine like a long-lost pet. Or lover. I can’t decide which I’d prefer at this point.

“Can you make a drink, or is that too much?” I ask, not wanting to mess up the machine.

“What’s that? You want me to be your sexy barista?” he jokes, cupping his hand around his ear. I heave a long-suffering sigh and he says, “Yeah, I got you. I’m making my favorite, though. And there will be no complaints, capiché?”

“Deal,” I agree with a salute. I sit at the circular table in the middle of the room and watch while Dean fiddles with the machine.

I’m so impressed with how much control he has.

I mean, just a couple weeks ago we couldn’t hold a conversation for more than a few minutes without it exhausting him.

And now the man is making me a cup of coffee .

He turns around with an artisanal ceramic mug in his hands—one of those fancy ones that you can tell has been hand thrown—and sets it gingerly in front of me.

I breathe in and smell a rich caramel mingle with the deeper tones of dark roasted coffee.

He gives me a smug look as he sits next to me. “I told you it was good.”

“I haven’t even tasted it yet,” I scoff. He watches while I pick the mug up and bring it to my mouth. I take a small sip and laugh. Because, of course, it’s blisteringly sweet. Dean would never have anything less.

“Told you,” he says victoriously. I smile and shake my head at him because “good” isn’t exactly the adjective I would have used.

“Now obviously, I have to taste it,” he says, leaning in until his face is only inches from mine.

If I was confused before about what he meant, I’m not anymore.

I know I’m supposed to be the responsible one and keep us on track, but one little kiss can’t hurt, right?

Right.

So, when he leans in towards me, long lashes fluttering closed and his infuriating mouth ticked up in a smile, I meet him halfway.

I open on a gasp when he cards his fingers through my hair, giving it a gentle tug.

He sucks at my lower lip and dips his tongue into my mouth.

“Delicious,” he says lowly before coming back for more.

He kisses me until I’m breathless and needy, gasping into his mouth.

I sit back with a sharp inhale. “I am not going to let you distract us from what we need to do here, Dean,” I scold, although the sting is probably lessened by the whine in my voice.

“Worth a try,” he says, leaning in to steal one final peck. What is it about him that makes me so feral? One kiss and I’m ready to strip naked and let him have his wicked way with me.

“Later, I promise,” I say, reaching out to caress his cheek with my thumb. I can’t stop touching him, no matter how hard I try.

He shakes himself like he’s trying to recalibrate. “As long as you mean it,” he says, laser-focused on my lips.

“I don’t break my promises, Crawford,” I say. “Now come on, what’s next?”