Page 4 of Ghosted (The Ravenwood #1)

FOUR

I viciously frog the last two rows of the maroon sweater I’m attempting to knit before I finally release a scream of frustration.

Well, scream is a stretch; what ends up coming out of my throat is a weird mix of a strangled bird and a dying cat.

I’m glad I live alone and don’t have to explain that one.

I toss the whole project off my lap and stand from my couch in a huff. I’ve been trying to learn to knit for weeks because I thought it would be a nice, calming hobby to pick up.

Wrong.

Knitting must involve some type of witchcraft that I’m not privy to. No matter how hard I try or how many tutorials I watch, everything I make looks like a half-blind toddler was playing with yarn. Even that might be too generous a description.

I go to my small kitchen and gulp a glass of water to calm down. Just as I’m contemplating lighting every skein of yarn I’ve bought on fire, my phone dings! with a notification sound I’ m unfamiliar with. I frown down at it to see a MatchStik notification.

I totally forgot I redownloaded this godforsaken app.

I click on the notification and see that someone has “liked me,” even though I haven't done anything with it since reinstating my profile with Wren last night. I scowl at my phone, unsure how to feel. On the one hand, it’s nice that someone finds me attractive (at least enough to swipe right instead of left), but on the other hand, I don’t know if I’m ready to dive back into the dating pool.

A girl can only take so many men running and screaming (literally) when they get to know the real her before she decides that she’d rather be alone.

I think about my sister and how brave she always is. How unapologetically herself. How she keeps trying because she has hope that one day someone will love all of her.

I tap on the notification:

Dean likes you!

I tap on his photo icon and have to tamp down my immediate excitement.

The man is gorgeous. Dark hair that curls just a bit over his starched white collar.

Sun-kissed skin that makes his golden brown eyes glow.

A bright smile, eyes crinkling at the corners, unapologetic in its brilliance.

Muscular forearms peek out of rolled sleeves, and a botanical tattoo wraps around his right arm.

Damn.

I scroll through his profile and find that he’s a lawyer, thirty-two years old, and a Gemini. I scroll to the prompts he chose to answer and appreciate that we have a very similar sense of humor. He comes across warm and intelligent, and I want to know more.

In response to the prompt “My Weird But True Story,” he said, “My weird but true story is that one time, in college, I brought a stray cat into my dorm room because it was freezing out and I felt bad for it. I fed her some of my canned tuna and named her Fish. Well, lucky for Fish and unlucky for me, she had her kittens on my favorite sweatshirt under my bed. I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of meowing and realized I was now harboring five contraband cats instead of one. Fish and her four kittens, Trout, Bass, Salmon, and Tuna, were taken to a fantastic foster home and now ‘work’ at a local cat cafe.”

I can’t help but laugh, hoping that the story is true and not something he made up to seem sympathetic.

I go back to his pictures and quickly flip through them—the extra pictures tell a lot about a person.

No gym-bro photos and/or man holding dead animal photos, so things are looking promising.

With the sensation of jumping off a cliff, I swipe right on him too.

Then, I immediately exit out of the app, silence notifications, and toss my phone across my small apartment so it lands with a bounce on my well-loved sofa.

I resolve not to look at my phone for the rest of the night.

I wind up my knitting project and stuff it back into the storage basket next to my couch.

I braid my hair into a long fishtail and then undo it.

I pick up the book I was reading and plop on my armchair situated at the furthest point from my couch in the living room.

I read for what feels like forever. I check the time on the antique clock mounted on the wall. Only five minutes have passed.

Okay, I’ll check one time to see if he messaged me, but that’s it.

I stride across the room, book forgotten over the arm of my chair. Unlocking my phone, my gaze is immediately drawn to the “New Message!” banner from MatchStik. I sink onto the couch and close my eyes, savoring the sense of anticipation and hoping he doesn’t kill it with a “u up?” message.

I tap the link and am instantly relieved.

Dean:

Hey, Rae. I also like wine and cheese (whine and cheesy are acceptable variations) :) Would you be down to meet for a drink tomorrow night to get to know each other better?

Straight to the point and willing to make himself look a little silly. I bite my lip and reply.

Rae:

Hmm idk, I usually like to make sure there’s no murder-vibes before I agree to meet anyone in person. Although, the promise of wine and charcuterie does tend to override my instincts.

I knew offering wine and cheese would be the perfect trap.

Trap?

Did I say trap? I meant that wine and cheese offer the perfect backdrop for a first date. Even if it goes terribly, at least you have wine.

And cheese.

Of course, and cheese. How could I forget our fermented friend?

You forgetting cheese is at least one strike. Usually two, but I’m feeling generous.

Your kindness knows no bounds. Sonnets will be composed in your honor.

I snort a laugh. Alright, he's smooth and quick-witted. So what? I click back on his profile and bite my lip.

Dammit, he’s hot.

I sigh. As much as I tell Wren I’m over relationships and dating, a small part of me wants to try again. Like she said, I am allergic to cats. Let’s hope Dean hasn’t gotten any after Fish and her kittens.

Okay, you’ve charmed me. I’ll meet you there tomorrow. 7 PM at Barrel and Vine?

Ha! My trap, I mean date idea, is a success! Seven sounds great.

Ya know, if you’re trying to squash the murder vibes, you should stop mentioning that this is a trap.

Who said anything about a trap?

I’ll never turn down wine and cheese, but I’m bringing my pepper spray. A girl needs to be prepared.

Fair enough. I’ll be the one in the dark gray suit.

Perfect. I’ve always wanted to know what it would be like to date a man who looks like he’s on the way to a funeral.

Hey! We can’t all wear jeans to work.

Except on casual Fridays?

I’m fully convinced that casual Friday is a myth created by corporate America to give a false sense of hope and camaraderie.

Lol. I look forward to hearing more of your conspiracy theories tomorrow.

Can’t wait. Goodnight, Rae.

I press my phone to my chest and smile, glad no one is around to see the dreamy upturn of my lips. How embarrassing to hold out hope for something that will probably crash and burn.