“Oh, yes. Chef Charlie’s signature dish: unseasoned air-fried chicken that disintegrates on contact. So far, we’ve ruined the carpet and the air fryer. Doyle’s going to kill us.”
He let out a deep, mock-offended sigh. “You wound me.”
I glanced up at him. His arm was still behind me, fingers resting lightly on my shoulder now, thumb moving in slow, lazy strokes that made me forget whatever smart remark I’d been about to deliver.
And I knew if I turned to face him fully, if I leaned in even a little, he’d kiss me again, just like he had the night before in the rain. Maybe slower, deeper this time.
But I didn’t. And neither did he.
Instead, we sat in the stillness of the park, watching the shadows lengthen as the twinkle of the Christmas lights winked around the square and on the porches of the homes surrounding it. His thumb kept brushing against my shoulder, steady as breath. His knee pressed into mine, grounding me. And for once, I didn’t feel the need to fill the space between us with chatter.
I liked this side of Charlie. Studio-dwelling, rule-following, emotionally constipated Charlie was great. But this version—the one laughing beside me, ice cream melted into his beard, letting his arm linger without overthinking it, letting his presence say what he wouldn’t—this was the one I was falling for.
And that scared me more than any haunted house ever could.
Charlie flicked a piece of banana from his jeans, then tipped his head my way, eyes bright. “You still want your séance?”
I turned to look at him, brows raised.
“I mean,” he shrugged, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I do happen to know a bar that’s been around long enough to have its own ghosts.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Are you offering to break into O’Malley’s?”
“Not break in,” he said innocently. “I have a key. And access to the good candles.”
I laughed, letting the sound slip out before I could hold it in. “You’re gonna bring a Ouija board, too, I suppose?”
“Nope,” he said, standing and offering me his hand. “Just you, me, and whatever spirits still linger in the woodwork. Who knows—maybe they’ve got something to say.”
My fingers slid into his. His touch wasn’t urgent or teasing now—only steady. The kind that made it really, really hard to remember how I’d ever lived without it.
“Let’s go raise the dead,” I said.
Chapter Thirty-One
CHARLIE
“Youjusthavetopretend like we broke in. We’re not actually committing a felony,” I said, leaning against the bar, staring down two of the most unimpressed women in Chatham County.
Sutton raised an eyebrow as she popped open a bottle of red wine and poured herself a glass. “You sound like a man who’s about to get himself arrested trying to impress a girl.”
Magnolia stood behind the bar, casually flipping through her phone like this conversation wasn’t even worth her full attention. “But you have a key,” she said flatly.
“He knows he has a key, Magnolia. That’s not the point,” Sutton chimed in, chin propped in her hand, already halfway to plotting. “This isn’t about logistics. It’s aboutromance.”
“It’s not about anything,” I said quickly. “She’s waiting outside with the dog, and I figured, you know, make it fun. Something different.”
“Something borderline criminal,” Magnolia muttered.
“She’s got this whole séance thing she wants to do,” I said, ignoring the way my voice dropped when I mentioned her. “Ghosts and energy and all that stuff she was into in New York.”
“And you, big bad skeptic, are willingly playing along?” Sutton leaned back, narrowed her eyes. “She must really have you spun out.”
I cleared my throat and looked at the wall.
“She doesn’t have a boyfriend, by the way,” I added casually, though it landed with all the grace of a cymbal crash in a library.
Sutton’s face lit up. “Oh? And how do you know that tidbit, huh?”
