Page 2 of Never Been Witched (Starfall Point #3)

Alice considered that for a moment. Art and Matilda Thigpen were known spendthrifts, which might have been why Matilda felt compelled to sell her furniture.

The couple were known for taking expensive vacations every winter “to get away from the gloom,” and for frequently redecorating their large home, which was just down the street from Riley in Shaddow House.

Frankly, it was a miracle they’d held on to so many nice pieces over the generations.

And this ghost held the cabinet so dear that he’d named it Bessie.

OK, then.

“I think the Thigpens’ grandson has learned from the error of their ways,” Alice said. “He’s going to rent the house out when he can’t spend time there himself. That seems pretty sensible.”

Arthur harrumphed. “I’ll believe it when I see it with my own eyes.

Little sneak never stopped trying to pry open my Bessie so he could search through her.

Kept insisting there had to be treasure hidden inside her, because she was so shiny.

Of course, she’s shiny. Didn’t I spend weeks sanding her with my own two hands?

Bessie is my masterpiece. American red maple.

Do you have any idea how difficult it was to get that in my time?

I worked too bloody”— Arthur stopped himself and glanced guiltily at Alice—”too hard on her to let some scamp ransack her. ”

“How did you prevent that?” Alice asked, letting a laugh escape.

Plover, the ghost of a very proper British butler who oversaw the many ghosts haunting Shaddow House, appreciated being asked questions.

He enjoyed instructing “his ladies” in the ways of keeping Shaddow House safe.

She hoped that Arthur would relax under the same treatment, or at least stop the ghostly hand-slapping.

“By holding the drawers shut,” Arthur said proudly, making Alice laugh.

Ghosts could only physically interact with their own attachment objects…

and people—obviously they could slap people.

Clearly, Arthur held Bessie very dear indeed.

“I did it off and on for decades. One year, they could store their precious blankets behind Bessie’s doors, and the next, she wouldn’t budge. ”

“Why?” Alice asked.

“Because it was funny to give them false hope,” Arthur replied. “I’m dead, aren’t I? How else am I going to occupy myself?”

“Good point,” Alice conceded, pinching her lips shut to prevent another laugh from escaping. But she couldn’t, and soon Arthur was chuckling too. “How long have you been holding them closed, at last count?”

“The drawers?” He considered it for a moment.

“The top, three years. The bottom, a hundred fifty years, give or take. The cabinet doors? I don’t hold them as much.

I couldn’t have them getting rid of Bessie because she was unusable.

As it was, they stuck her in one of the guest rooms, where hardly anybody could see her. ”

“You could have just opened all of the drawers and doors all at once,” Alice noted.

Arthur shot her an incredulous look. “Where would the fun be in that?”

Behind her, the phone rang. Alice huffed, checking her watch as she turned toward the checkout counter.

She’d let time get away from her. Her grandparents were a bit late with their call this morning.

Every single morning, they called to make sure the shop was “properly prepared” for the day, and those calls had gotten more contentious as their annual summer “inspection” had been delayed.

She grabbed her coffee cup where she’d set it aside and took a fortifying swig.

In the summers, Alice’s grandparents came back and lived in their family home, Proctor House.

In fact, they’d planned to come back earlier than usual this year, but Grandfather Franklin’s doctor had declared him unable to travel without surgery on his hip.

Frankly, Alice was surprised that the Proctors hadn’t demanded that she come down to Florida to take care of him while he was infirm.

“Bah, those infernal talking machines. Matilda used hers to distraction, always jawing to this neighbor or that,” Arthur grumbled as the phone continued to ring. “Never had a nice thing to say.”

Alice turned back toward Arthur and shrieked at the sight of yet another man, standing on the other side of the front door, peering in at her.

This one was alive—how strange to have to make that pulse-based distinction—and waving at her.

Alice stepped back, wincing at the grating noise her low-heeled shoes made on the hardwood.

Grandfather Franklin hated it when she walked too loudly.

The confusion had her bobbling her coffee, nearly splashing it on the expensive surfaces around her.

“What is wrong with me today?” Alice whispered, setting the cup aside and walking to the door. She opened it and gawked. She had no excuse for her undignified response, other than the fact that the man at her door was…lickable, but Alice would never have the confidence to say it out loud.

Behind her, the phone was still ringing.

The stranger had a lean and hungry look.

Alice never really understood that Shakespearean sentiment before now, but there he was in all his glory, his eyes blue-gray pools of appetite.

His lips made her think…things. His well-defined jaw gave his suntanned face a long, angular shape.

His hair was wavy and the sort of dark brown she’d only seen in highly polished hickory finishes.

She had to stop thinking about people in terms of furniture…

He was tan and tall, and his suit… Alice knew enough about clothes to know that she’d never seen its like before. This was not an off-the-rack selection from a department store. This man had stood patiently waiting while a tailor chalked lines on the charcoal-gray pants.

Why was she thinking about this man’s pants?!

She wanted to rumple him, climb on his lap and unbutton that shirt while disheveling the hell out of him. And she wanted it badly.

“I know it’s early, but I saw you through the window—are you open?” he greeted her in a smooth tone. Her cheeks flushed red and she barely— barely— resisted the urge to fan her face with the nearest file folder.

“Um, yes, only just,” Alice said, running a hand over her mussed hair. Of course, a man who turned her knees to jelly would walk through the door when she was as unkempt as a Dickensian street urchin. The phone, which had briefly stopped ringing, renewed its wailing.

“I was looking at that letter opener,” he replied, nodding to a display of smaller items Alice had arranged in the window.

Curating the front window displays was one of the few areas of the shop where she got away with some creativity.

The “hand-sized” collectibles tended to sell much faster, particularly in the tourist season—pocket watches, ceramics, even desk accessories.

The stock rotated so quickly, her grandparents didn’t have time to complain about her arrangements.

“When I was younger, my dad had something like it,” he said. “It caught my eye as I was walking past and I… Did you need to get that?”

He pointed at the ringing phone on the counter. The motion brought the scent of him closer to her face, the smell of a warm summer breeze blowing from the ocean through a citrus grove.

Yep, it was entirely possible she was losing her mind.

“Oh, no, the machine can get it,” Alice assured him.

“Are you unwell, miss?” Arthur asked, gesturing his transparent hand at his cheeks. “You’re going a little bit flushed, there.”

Alice turned toward Arthur, grimacing.

“Oh, no, he can’t see me,” Arthur informed her cheerfully, sliding behind the cabinet as if he was hiding. He peeked out with an impish expression. “Because I don’t want him to. It’s much more fun this way. Oh, I think I’m going to find this very amusing indeed.”

“Shh,” she hissed at him.

The customer’s eyebrows arched. “Beg pardon?”

“Oh, just warding off a sneeze,” Alice lied, waving a hand in front of her face. “You know, antique shops, they get so dusty.”

“That was a terrible lie,” Arthur snickered. When Alice shot him a scathing look, he added, “And you can’t even shush me again! This is brilliant. And I was afraid this place was gonna be boring!”

The man glanced around, unaware of Arthur’s cackling. Between the lack of caffeine, the ghostly laughter, and the phone—which had started to ring again— a stabbing headache was starting to develop right behind Alice’s eyes.

“I don’t see any dust in here,” said the customer. “You keep this place impressively clean. It’s a little crowded, maybe. You know, I normally don’t like antique shops. They always seem to smell like mildew and broken dreams, but this one is…nice.”

She laughed. “Must be the floral air freshener.”

“No, now that you mention it.” He wrinkled his nose. “It’s a bit strong, isn’t it?”

The floral air freshener was the same brand as her grandparents’ favorite polish, and they used so much of it that the smell lingered on everything, no matter how Alice tried to air the place out.

“The owners insist on it,” she told him. “They think it makes the place smell like an English garden.”

Arthur gasped, clearly insulted.

“I have been in multiple English gardens, and I can tell you they are way off the mark,” the newcomer told her. “Is it possible your employers are smell-blind?”

“Anything is possible,” Alice said.

“What the bloody hell is ‘smell-blind’? Is this what passes for flirtation in this modern era?” Arthur groused. Alice shook her head slightly at him.

The stranger frowned at her. “Is everything all right? Are you sure you don’t need to get that phone?”

“No, it’s just—my grandparents call every morning to, uh, check on me.

They own the shop,” Alice admitted. She tried not to clench her eyes shut in regret.

Why did she just admit to working for her grandparents?

Why not slap on a name tag that read “UNEMPLOYABLE LOSER” to go with her bedraggled suit?