Not even a little.
Instead, they’re dark.
Angry.
“Want to tell me what you were really doing upstairs?”
My mouth snaps shut.
Oh.
Crap.
“I didn’t think so,” he says flatly.
I huff and grab the beer, taking a long sip just to give my mouth something to do.
He doesn’t even look at me.
His gaze stays fixed on the television mounted above the bar.
Some late-night sports news show is playing.
“What did I tell you about chasing ghost stories?” he says quietly.
The quiet is worse than yelling.
“I wasn’t—”
“Don’t.”
The warning slices through the air before I can even finish the lie.
“Fine,” I mutter. “You caught me. What are you gonna do? Spank me?”
His eyes flick to mine.
Just for a second.
But it’s enough.
“Do not tempt me,” he says, his voice a low rumble.
Heat crawls up the back of my neck.
Then his attention goes right back to the television like the exchange never happened.
My pulse does a weird little skip.
“I just thought I’d see if anything was really happening up there with my own eyes,” I admit finally.
He exhales sharply. “Fuck, Harleigh.”
The way he says my name makes my stomach twist.
Not Miss Storm.
Harleigh.
