Okay, so, just like the hour he’d spent drinking coffee with Wren the other day, this wasn’t adatedate. And judging by Wren’s suggestion that they come here instead of the more upmarket places in town, she didn’t think it was one either. Right. Hopefully they were on the same page. He was simply having a drink with his dance instructor…
Hisdanceinstructor. God, if his friends found out he was taking a hip-hop class with a bunch of teenagers, they’d laugh their asses off. And then tease him for the next twenty years. Dane followed Wren to the bar and watched as she slid onto a barstool and crossed long, slim legs. Date or not, he couldn’t help picturing being on his back, those legs straddling his hips, her hair, long and curly spilling onto his chest, soft and wild…
“Dane?”
He blinked, brought back to the present by Wren’s hand on his arm. He looked at her, then at the bartender who was waiting for their order. “Sorry, I zoned out for a second.” He placed his phone on the bar and took the barstool next to Wren. His knee brushed hers as he sat down. Her perfume, light and floral, drifted past his nose. Her scent…Concentrate, Trafford!“What are you having?” he asked her.
“I’ll have a glass of your house Chardonnay,” Wren said. Dane ordered a beer and rolled his shoulders, conscious of a little stiffness settling in.
Wren noticed. “Are you okay?” she asked, as he lifted his hand to knead his shoulder.
“Mmm, my shoulders are stiff,” he replied, noticing her only makeup was some mascara and a natural shade of gloss. “It can’t be from dancing, right?”
Wren leaned forward, held his eyes, her expression serious. “It can’tpossiblybe from dancing, Dane,” she told him.
“Oh. Why not?”
“Because you didn’t do anything today that remotely resembled dancing,” she told him, her eyes crinkling.
“Ha ha, funny.” He couldn’t help smiling, understanding that her teasing wasn’t malicious. And yes, the fact that he was an awful dancer was well established. The bartender placed their drinks in front of them, and Dane picked up his beer bottle. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” Wren sipped her drink and sighed. “That hits the spot.”
Dane looked around the bar and smiled at the vinyl sign displaying “Jasper’s Rules.”
No sage, salt, or spiritual shit.
Spirits are served, not seen.
Mention a ghost sighting, and you buy a round for the house.
Don’t tell me the lights flickered, I pay the electric bill.
If you feel a chill, it’s a draft. Sit closer to the heater.
“Jasper is a skeptic?” he asked, chuckling. He nodded at the signs.
“The town’s biggest one,” Wren replied. She looked around the bar and pointed to a man with a full, gray beard and barrel-like chest. The tattoo on his massive bicep peeking out from below the band of the sleeve of his T-shirt told Dane that he was an ex-marine. He looked like he took no shit. Dane immediately liked him.
Wren leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Oh, and he’s not joking about buying a round if you mention a ghost. One Superbowl a few years back, the place was packed, and a True Believer mentioned that Captain Blackwood, the Civil War soldier, was sitting at the bar. Jasper heard him and that round cost him a bomb. He hasn’t been back.”
“No ghost talk, noted. But I have been thinking about the town’s paranormal believers versus skeptics war. Is it real or just for show?”
Wren rocked her hand from side to side. “That’s a hard question to answer,” Wren said, tapping her finger on the rim of her glass. “The bulk of the business owners and residents like the tourist money, and while they might not believe in the supernatural, they are happy to lean into the all-year-round Halloween theme—with a few exceptions, like Jasper. But even if Halloween wasn’t the center of the world here, Jasper’s bar would be the same. No frills and no fuss.”
And then she added: “There is a small group of residents who are virulently anti anything paranormal, who think the town is messing with ‘dark forces.’”
Dane didn’t quite see how, by displaying a couple of skeletons and watermelon jack-o’-lanterns they were inviting in “dark forces,” but instead of asking, he placed his elbow on the bar, happy to listen to her.
Wren continued, leaning in a little closer. “But there’s another group, who truly lean into the paranormal, some who moved here for the energy, who believe the town is a portal to the other side. They hate the fact that the town makes money off their beliefs; they say they are exploiting the ghosts.”
“Uh … can the dead be exploited?” he asked.
“That question keeps some people up at night,” Wren said, smiling. He loved her wide mouth, the way her amusement deepened the green of her eyes, the tiny lines that feathered the corners. She wore, he noticed, dangling silver earrings that looked like—he leaned forward—broomsticks? He lifted his finger and touched one gently, watching it swing. There was her perfume again, rising from lovely, heated skin.
“Luna gave them to me for Christmas,” Wren said, her voice pitched higher than before. He saw her swallow, watched her throat bob, and clocked her flushed cheeks. Yeah, she was attracted to him, not as much as he was to her—he couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do more than take her to bed—but he affected her. He smiled, pleased.
He couldn’t kiss her, not in a brightly lit bar surrounded by people who’d watched her grow up. If … no,whenhe kissed her, he wanted to do it properly. Take his time to explore, tofeast.He sat back and took a long swallow of beer.
