That’s saying something, coming from me. I work in construction. I see a lot of men. Some of them are even good-looking, in that rugged, ‘I can bench press a refrigerator and haven’t shaved this week’ kind of way. But this guy? There’s no other word for it.
This man isbeautiful.
Soft black hair falls across his forehead, the tips brushing close to his eyes. His eyes are green—not the muddy hazel others generously call green, but this light, cloudy color, like a milky pool, or sea glass I’d find on the beach when Mom took Rosie and me to Coney Island. His face is lean and clean-shaven. His pale skin might make someone else look sickly, but instead, it makes his dark hair and stern eyebrows more striking because he’s stupidly hot. Criminally hot. So hot I temporarily forget about the throbbing pain wrapped around my throat like a collar, or why I even walked over here in the first place.
He makes no move to open the door. I knock again and point at the handle. I’m starting to wonder if maybe he’s going to ignore me until I leave, when he unlocks the door and gets out.
He leans against the door, his hands in the pockets of his beat-up leather jacket. I’m very aware that I’m wearing yesterday’s work clothes and didn’t brush my teeth this morning.
“Have you been here since last night?” I manage, my voice coming out as a hoarse croak.
At least ten seconds pass before he says: “We’re monitoring the area.”
“For more ghosts?”
He glances over his shoulder like he’s looking for someone. Probably Old Man. He tilts his head as if he’s trying to figure out how much he should tell me, which is ridiculous because I was there. I saw the whole thing.
But he’s right not to be happy to see me. I might not have been in my right mind after being almost murdered, but I made one of the worst first impressions I could have made on him, so I need to try again.
“I’m sorry for punching you,” I say, swallowing against the burning in my throat. “You guys saved my life—thank you, by the way—so I should’ve realized you weren’t also trying to kill me. I was wondering if I could ask you a couple questions about what I saw?”
He stares at me with an unreadable expression on his face. “What happens if I say no?”
I blink. “What?”
“Will you punch me again if I don’t answer your questions?” He shrugs, holding his shoulders there for a second before dropping them. “I just want to understand if I’m being questioned under duress.”
He’s messing with me. The realization hits like a shot of espresso straight to my exhausted brain, and suddenly I’m grinning because funny is my favorite thing and I wasn’t expecting it from Mr. Tall-Dark-and-May-Or-May-Not-Know-How-To-Travel-Through-Time.
I should play this cool. Except I’ve never been cool about anything in my entire life. When I like something, it shows on my face like a billboard, and right now my face must be advertising that I think this guy is hilarious.
“I won’t punch you, regardless of your answers, for any reason at all,” I say.
“You promise?”
“I do.”
“Good.” He adjusts his position against the van, one boot crossing over the other. “What do you want to know?”
Wind cuts through me, and I zip my jacket up to my chin. “Your grandpa asked how long I’ve been able to see dead people.”
“He’s not my grandfather.”
“Uncle, then.”
“Not that either.”
Semantics. “What did I see?”
He sighs and pulls off his cap, running a hand through his dark hair before settling the hat back on his head. The tattoo covering his knuckles looks like bones. “An entity.”
“Entity is your fancy word for a ghost, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Why do you call them entities? I feel like that’s kind of pretentious when you could just call them ghosts.”
“I didn’t create the terminology.” He rolls his shoulders back, and his leather jacket creaks as it stretches across his broad shoulders. “Besides, calling them entities largely prevents theGhostbusterscomparison. Entitybuster doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
