There were three.
Dante. Branwell. Tennyson.
Crazy how similar they looked with deep, judgy scowls on their faces.
Lovely.
My morning was going so well.
They didn’t say hello. Though Dante did growl as he pushed past me into the apartment. Branwell and Tennyson followed behind in stoic silence, a satchel on Tennyson’s shoulder swinging around as he slammed the door shut.
It had the ring of doom. I was a psychic after all.
Dante cut the preliminaries. “Why aren’t you answering your phone?”
“I sent you an email,” I countered.
“I didn’t get it. Why didn’t you just call? This is important.”
“Well, I decided to take a midnight swim with my phone in my pocket. It went about as well as you could expect—”
“Funny. The entire civilized world knows about your little moonlight beach party.” Tennyson sank into the couch, pushing aside an Ariel pillow and tossing his leather satchel onto the floor. “Do you think you could stay out of trouble for like . . . I don’t know . . . twenty-four hours?”
“Or at least keep your tongue out of poor Jack’s mouth?” That was Branwell.
“Ha-ha.”
“I’m serious.”
I crossed my arms. “For the record, Jack gives as good as he gets when we kiss—”
“No!”
“Ugh!”
“My ears!”
There you have it, folks. The D’Angelo triplets recoiling in collective horror.
Huh. Who knew it was that easy?
“No details.” Dante shuddered, holding out his palm.
“What details?” My face was pure innocence. “Like the way Jack holds me tight and yet kisses like I’m something fragile, something treasured—”
Dante and Branwell cringed.
“We’ve created a monster,” Tennyson deadpanned, obviously made of sterner stuff.
“Trust you to get involved with a ghost.” Dante sat down, scrubbing his hands over his face. “The more unavailable the guy, the more likely you are to chase him.”
My heart panged. “That’s not true.”
“You chase them, convince them to like you and then go all psycho and possessive. It’s your thing.”
“It is not!” I protested too quickly.
Dante gave me his signatureAre you stoopid?look.
