When I looked back up at him, I couldn’t help but smirk—he was still staring. And because I was feeling extra bold, I summoned my inner lioness, went up on my toes, and pressed my lips softly to his.
“You’ll survive,” I breathed.
His laugh was half-groan, half-growl. “Not sure I will.”
He reached for my hand, thumb brushing over my knuckles as he tugged me close. “And for the record, that blue—” His gaze flicked up to the streaks in my hair, then back down the line of my body. “You’re beautiful.”
Something fluttered low in my chest. Not nerves this time.
Power.
I could feel the weight of his gaze, hot and heavy, lingering on the swing of my hips as we walked back toward his SUV. By the time he reached around to open the passenger door, my cheeks were already flushed.
“Such a gentleman,” I teased, slipping past him. But the heat radiating off his body as he steadied me by the waist made my breath catch.
Once inside, I barely had time to buckle my seatbelt before he was sliding in next to me, settling his broad, warm hand on my bare thigh like it belonged there.
The engine rumbled to life, headlights cutting across the street, but my brain barely registered the direction he was driving. All I could think about was the weight of his palm against my skin, the absentminded stroke of his thumb, the way every shift of the car made his grip tighten just enough to make me shiver.
The silence stretched as we drove, the low hum of the engine and the quiet rasp of his thumb against my skin filling the air. My nerves should’ve been buzzing, but instead I felt . . . steady. Grounded. And maybe just a little too distracted by the heat of his hand to keep pretending I wasn’t curious.
“Are you gonna tell me where we’re going?” I finally asked, glancing sideways at him.
His mouth curved, the corner of his lips tipping into that smug, little half-grin that had undone me more times than I could count. “No.”
I narrowed my eyes. “No?”
“Patience, kitten.” His gaze flicked from the road back to me, heavy with amusement. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
Easy for him to say when his hand was sliding up just high enough on my thigh to scramble all rational thought. By the time we turned down a side street on the edge of Rose City, my pulse was practically vibrating in my ears.
When he finally pulled to a stop, I blinked out the window, my brows knitting together. He must’ve taken a wrong turn because the scene ahead was nothing short of a horror movie—a sagging Victorian with peeling paint and cracked windows, its porch leaning under the weight of time.
Or maybe the weight of evil.
Where the fuck were we?
“Umm,” I said slowly. “Are you planning to murder me?”
Brooks laughed, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. I wasn't sure whether I wanted to smack or straddle him. Maybe both.
Before I could ask if this was some kind of weird prank, a figure emerged from the shadows. An older woman in a floor-length calico skirt, a white blouse buttoned to her chin, and a bonnet that looked like it had time-traveled straight off the Oregon Trail.
I startled, gripping the door handle. “Oh, fuck. It’s a ghost. Brooks, it’s afuckingghost.”
He smiled, clearly delighted by my confusion. “No, it’s Janice.”
“Janice?” I repeated, staring as she waved primly at us, the hem of her skirt brushing the weeds. “Janice who?”
“Janice is the president of the Rose City Historical Society. Probably knows more about this city than anyone alive.” His eyes glittered with mischief as he reached for my hand. “I hired her to give us a private ghost tour.”
I blinked at him, then back at Janice, who, for all intents and purposes, looked ready to churn butter any second now.
“We’re doing a ghost tour?” I asked, my voice pitched somewhere between disbelief and awe.
Brooks only lifted one shoulder in a shrug, like this was the most obvious thing in the world.
“You love all that true-crime, murder-doc shit. I figured this was right up your alley.”
