Slate snorted at how quickly Dash pushed everything back on him. “What happened to you ‘get all the credit?’”
“You’re the resident ghost expert. I’m just the annoyingly cute, slightly snarky sidekick who gives good advice to his super-hot boyfriend.”
Whenever Dash worked all those adjectives into a sentence, Slate got worried. Part of him wanted to set protective wards and send stern warnings to stay away or risk dire consequences. But that would have a negative impact on Thomas and Oliver, not to mention keep out any spirits who wanted to move on.
“I think for now we take him at his word that they won’t interfere with the festival,” Slate said. “We also need to be prepared to act if they become an issue. Making a big deal out of this might draw more attention to the party than if we don’t give him a rallying cry.”
“Good point.” Dash nodded. “Maybe no one will come.”
They walked back toward the heart of the festival. The sounds of laughter and friendly greetings filled the air, mixing with the distant melody of a fiddle band setting up near the craft booths. “You don’t believe that, do you?”
“Nope, but like you said—tonight we enjoy the festival,” Dash said. “Tomorrow morning, if the town’s still standing and Mrs. Finch hasn’t started a neighborhood watch for suspicious ectoplasm, we can think about our next move.”
It was a reasonable plan. Practical. The kind of measured response that had served them well in the past. So why did Slate feel like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop?
He tried to focus on the warmth of Dash’s hand in his, on the sweet scent of cider donuts drifting from a nearby vendor, on the comfortable chaos of their town doing what it did best. But underneath it all, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Gary Torrente’s idea of “keeping a low profile” differed greatly from his own.
They approached the face-painting booth, and Dash squeezed Slate’s fingers. “Buy me another face pumpkin?”
Slate smiled, remembering that night the previous year. The moment Dash had agreed to get a pumpkin painted on his face was the moment Slate realized he didn’t hate Halloween as much as he proclaimed. Or at the very least, he wasn’t so rigid he wouldn’t do things to make Slate happy.
In his heart, he knew Gary would be a problem. Not intentionally, but his laid-back, do-whatever vibes attitude was going to clash with the quiet they needed to run the portalproperly. Their Gary problem, however, could wait. He had other plans.
“Two face pumpkins,” Slate said, pointing to Dash and then himself. “One for each of us.”
Chapter Three
Slate sat up in bed, jolted from a peaceful sleep by a sense of something wrong. Next to him, Dash flailed around in the sheets with a startled cry.
“Sorry, guys.” Thomas stood at the foot of the bed, looking unsure of himself. His ever-present letterman jacket looked pristine as always. “I wouldn’t have woken you unless it was important. Slate’s parents are pulling into the driveway. Right now.”
Brushing off the last vestiges of sleep, Slate processed the information. His parents? They never visited unannounced. Obviously, this was their new thing.
“It’s Saturday morning.” Dash picked up the clock and made a sound somewhere between a groan and a curse. “At seven thirty-four. Are they insane?”
Slate shared the frustration. Holding Dash when they woke up was one of his favorite things in life, and his parents were depriving him of that today. “No, but they might be evil.”
Now at the window, Thomas looked down into the yard. “They’re driving up to the front door,” he said. “Do you want me to stall them?”
“You can do that?” Dash asked, already out of bed and grabbing his jeans off the chair. “I mean, you’re not going to scare them or anything.”
The idea didn’t sound all bad to Slate. Serve them right for trying to sneak up on us. “How would you delay them?”
“Figure out which door they’re going to use, and make sure the door sticks.” Thomas smiled, and Slate was certain he’d done this before. “He’ll check his key before trying again. I won’t let it open on the second attempt, but on the third it will open with some effort. Should buy you a minute or two.”
He’ddefinitelydone this before. “Do it.”
“And thank you,” Dash added as he stepped into his pants. “We owe you.”
Thomas smiled before he sank through the floor, and Slate wondered what you gave a ghost for running interference on intrusive parents.
Organized chaos followed Thomas’s departure. Dash swore under his breath as he hopped on one foot trying to pull on his jeans. Slate tugged a long-sleeved Henley over his head and tried not to get too mad.
They moved around each other in the practiced dance of people who’d shared space long enough to avoid collisions when rushing to get dressed.
“Why couldn’t they come for brunch?” Dash asked as he put toothpaste on his brush. “Isn’t that what normal people do on weekends?”
Slate dragged a brush through his hair and wished he’d kept it short like Dash. “You think my parents are normal?”
