I adopt an indignant tone. “I’m not helping you cheat.”
“But you’ll commit fraud and blackmail? Strange set of morals you have there.”
I tune out his voice, inhaling deeply. Is it spice or musk or another scent that makes my mouth water?
“Are you sniffing me?”
My shoulders shrink, then I force them back. “I rely on my other sen—”
“Go ahead.” Damien shoves my head into his armpit. “Get a good whiff.”
“Don’t—”
My flailing hands are completely ineffective, leaving me inundated in his scent and his body heat until he relents and steps away.
“You know, I like you, little ghost. Don’t worry… I’ll come up with another way for you to earn those glasses.”
I stare blankly ahead as his footsteps saunter away. What just happened?
I’m the one meant to be blackmailing him.
How did he turn it around?
CHAPTER FOUR
DAMIEN
My phone vibratesagainst my hip; the buzz lost under the blare from the cinema’s surround-sound speakers. Each orchestral swell makes my eardrums throb.
Beside me, Chelsea sits, her eyes reflecting the action on the screen. She gives me occasional sideways glances, and her frown lines deepen when I check the message.
Just a mate from my last school:Party at Jake’s tonight. You in?
I tap out a reply:Busy, then scroll down my notifications, stopping on the appointment confirmation from Rothschild Optometry. The sheer audacity of Ophelia quoting me that inflated price makes me smile. Another taunt… or a challenge.
If it’s the latter, I’m failing.
When I asked for a time early next week, the receptionist had laughed in polite disbelief. “We can put you on our waitlist,” she said, sounding more like a ploy to get me off the line than a genuine opportunity.
The earliest confirmed appointment is for next June.
Chelsea leans into my side. “Are you enjoying it?”
The dim lighting softens her features, making her appear prettier, but even if my cock were on board with Chelsea, it’s not like I can do the things I’d want to do to her. Not with her father’s goodwill on the line.
“Sure.” I scoop a handful of popcorn from the box on her lap, the buttery aroma filling the air. “Good pick.”
Onscreen, some period-drama guy struts into view wearing a waistcoat so tight it must be stitched directly onto his torso.
I stifle a yawn, letting my eyes defocus while my mind worries at the delay with the optometrist. If I can’t get the appointment moved sooner, my reciprocal blackmail is doomed, and I don’t yet have another plan for leverage.
The credits finally roll, pulling me back into reality as we shuffle out of the tiny theatre into the crisp night air.
Chelsea gives an exaggerated shiver, and I put my arm around her, even opening her door like a gentleman, before getting into the driver’s seat. I drum my fingers on the wheel as she buckles her seatbelt.
It’s just past eleven according to the glow of the dashboard clock. “You want to go somewhere else? There’s a party in Sumner if you fancy it.”
She hesitates, her brows pulling together. “Not this late,” she finally says, apologetic. “I really need to get home.”
