“When you told me you were marrying Liam because he had a cool best friend, I thought you were batshit crazy.”
“Emma!” I hiss, glancing around. “Keep your voice down!”
But the live band is loud, the bass is thumping through the floorboards, and no one is paying attention to us.
“But now that I have met Lila.” She gestures at our ghost lady. “I certify that she is, in fact, the coolest. Your assessment was legit.”
Lila preens, her pale makeup cracking around her grin. “I like her,” she tells me.
“She’s tolerable,” I say.
Emma whoops. We clink our glasses with a satisfying chime and throw back the shots in unison. The burn is familiar now, almost comfortable. I set my glass down and reach for a lime wedge, sucking on it to cut the fire.
I squeeze my eyes shut against the citrussy sting, and when I open them again, a man has planted himself in front of us.
He is tall. Six-two, maybe more. He’s wearing jeans, a flannel shirt rolled at the sleeves to expose tanned forearms, and broken-in cowboy boots. His hair is a luxurious chestnut brown, longish, falling past his ears in unkept waves, and his irises are a deep, dark blue that tugs at a memory.
Where have I seen those eyes before?
“Hey, Lila,” he drawls.
“Hey,” she shoots back.
“Are you not introducing me to your friends?”
“No way. I’m pretty sure you’re under a city-wide recall for breaking too many hearts.”
The man grins, unfazed. He has pouty, full lips. His jaw is aggressively square. And his teeth are white and straight, save for a single crooked one in the front—a lone act of rebellion against otherwise facial perfection. He belongs on the cover of a dusty country music album.
“I come in peace.” He holds up both hands in surrender, then lets his gaze sweep over our trio. “A kitten. A devil. And a ghost. Which one of you should I be most scared of?”
Emma tilts her head. “Are you supposed to be dressed up as a cowboy?”
He makes a face—mock-wounded, stupidly charming. “This is what I wear every day. But now that you’ve insulted my clothes…” He leans against the bar, angling toward Emma and holding her gaze a second too long, perfectly aware of how good he looks. “How are you going to make it up to me?”
I laugh. I can’t help it. The tequila has loosened me up, and the guy’s lines are so cheesy they loop back around to endearing. Emma, however, is not laughing. She looks about ready to reap his soul.
“Why don’t you start”—she drags her words—“by telling us your name?”
“Remy Evans.”
Ah, now the twilight eyes click in place. He must be Rebecca’s younger brother. I didn’t end up meeting him at the festival and he didn’t come to the football game. I’ve barely made the connection when a prickle of awareness spider-walks down my spine. I sense Liam coming a second before he slides up beside me and wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me close. He doesn’t even give me time to say hi. He cups my cheek with his other hand, tilting my face toward his.
And then he kisses me.
It’s not a polite hello. Liam kisses me like we’re back in the corn maze with no one watching and not in a crowded bar full of people.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, hot and demanding. The hand on my hip tightens, pulling me flush against him. I grab the front of his letterman jacket—that stupid, sexy football jacket I told him not to wear—and hold on as the floor tilts beneath my feet.
When he pulls back, I’m breathless. Dizzy. My lips are swollen.
Liam turns to face Remy, keeping me tucked against his side.
“Hey, man.” His voice is casual, friendly, completely at odds with the territorial display he just put on. “I see you’ve met my wife.”
Remy’s eyes go wide. He takes a deliberate step backward and holds up his hands.
“Congrats, man.” He looks between us, surprised. “I’d heard you got hitched, but I didn’t realize—” He trails off, glancing at me. “Welcome to town, err…”
