I squinted at the movie and willed myself away from this. It didn’t work. What did a girl need to do to get an hour of alone time to enjoy her tea?
The TV cycled throughPoltergeist, Ghostbusters, andCasper.I needed something stronger in my cup for this.
Bella, perched on the arm of the couch next to me, flicked her tail like a metronome of judgment. When one ghost drifted too close, she swatted at the air and hissed.
“Can we not antagonize the spirits? It’s too early.”
Harry ignored me, turning to a pair of newly deceased lovers in the corner I’d somehow missed. “And please, for the love of decency, keep your clothes on. No one wants to see spectral anatomy before breakfast.”
Wait, was that the guy? I tilted my head to glance at his bare ass. No, those buns were definitely meatier. What did it say about my home that I could identify a ghost by his bottom rather than his face?
The man clutched his transparent trousers, scandalized. “We’re spirits, not exhibitionists!”
“Tell that to my eyes,” I grumbled.
The kitchen floorboards creaked, and Maggie skipped in, clutching a tray piled with something steaming and orange. “I made snacks.” The ghosts paused in their arguments to stare.
“Are you going to tell her?” Rebecca asked.
The smell hit a beat later. Something between over-boiled cabbage and burned sugar.
“Absolutely not. They can take one for the team. It’s the least they can do.”
“Whatisthat?” Rebecca asked, leaning forward but keeping a safe distance.
“Pumpkin and anchovy muffins,” she said proudly. “High in protein and vegetarian-friendly.”
Bella hissed once, then thudded to the floor away from the steaming fish and vegetable dessert. Smart cat.
“Anchovies are fish,” the woman from the 1950s pointed out.
Maggie blinked. “And?”
Rebecca sighed and rubbed her belly. “I’ve just eaten, but I’ll try one later if my stomach allows.”
Nice deflection from informing our lovely teenager that fish were not vegetarian.
One of the older ghosts, a Victorian gentleman with a mustache and eternal optimism, reached for a muffin. Histranslucent hand actually closed around it before it fell and splattered on the rug.
He looked down in wonder. “Delightful. Best muffin I never ate.”
Bella batted the fallen muffin under the sofa, the feline version of cleanup duty.
Maggie beamed. “See? He likes it!”
I fought not to breathe too deeply as my stomach lurched with the thought of her latest concoction. Was it too late to miss the mushroom lasagne?
The television flickered again, landing on a live broadcast. “Breaking news: Mass murder in New Orleans. Fifteen dead.” The ghosts fell silent. Harry floated backward, his usual humor draining away. The female reporter’s voice was grim. “Investigators are baffled by the ritualistic markings found on the victims. Joining me is supernatural expert John Jacobs.”
She nodded as the camera panned out to take both of them into view. John was the epitome of a stuffy college professor in a tweed blazer with unruly dark wavy hair and piercing blue eyes.
“Professors have leveled up,” Rebecca pointed out.
“You mean they are now relevant because their crackpot theories suddenly carry weight as the world grapples with the existence of the supernatural?”
“No, I mean he’s hot.”
Oh.I refocused on his words.
