Page 71 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

She frowned. “Had you been there before?”

He looked disturbed. “No. I don’t know how I got there. All I wanted to do was find you. But something stopped me.”

“Magic,” she whispered. “There’s always a price to pay for it. I used magic to visit her memories . . . and you paid the price.”

Something in her ached at the thought of him, in that empty place, wanting to find her. She ached at the thought of him being somewhere unknown, and entirely alone.

“I’m sorry,” she said mournfully. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m here now,” he replied.

“You found me.”

Theo’s gaze steadied on hers. “Yes. I found you.”

She hesitated, just for a second, then asked, “Do you want to know what I saw? When I was in your past? In her past?”

He didn’t reply, continuing to gaze at her with eyes that were both intense and warm.

“Theo?”

He stepped closer to her. “Could you . . .” he began, his voice careful, “could you touch more of me now, do you think?”

“That’s . . . that’s not an answer to my question,” she whispered.

Theo stepped closer again. “I know. I’m asking a question of my own.”

Colour rose to her cheeks before she could stop it, warmth blooming across her face. She didn’t answer right away, but she didn’t need to. Theo’s eyes flicked over her, catching the blush, understanding it. “Yes,” she finally admitted. “I could touch more of you now. Probably. I think the more I experience in the memories . . . the more tangible you become here.”

“You saw more, didn’t you?” he asked softly. “When you went back . . . you saw more of me. More of us. You did more.” He stepped even closer. “More with me.”

Augustine drew in a breath, steadying herself — not because she was afraid, but because this felt like stepping across something irreversible.

“I was there,” she stammered. “For your first kiss. But . . . but it wasn’t me. It was her.”

The memory brushed against her again as she spoke — soft, vivid, not hers and yet somehow . . . somehow it felt like it belonged to her all the same.

“You kissed me,” Theo said. “You kissed me in those memories, and then . . . and then you waited for me here. Why?”

She opened her mouth to speak but no words came out. What could she say? I knew what kissing you was like. I knew what touching you was like. And I wanted to do it again, but not because of her. I wanted it for me. For us.

“Yes, I waited,” she confirmed. “But I . . . I don’t know why.”

“Liar.”

He took another step towards her, and for a heartbeat, Augustine thought he might reach for her. She almost leaned into it, already remembering the shape of his hands, the warmth of his lips, how easily that had become something shared, something real. But he stopped short. His hands stayed at his sides, and she tried not to miss the feel of him.

“You know why you waited,” he said, his voice low. “It’s for the same reason I keep finding my way back to you. There’s something here. Something between us.” Augustine flinched — not at the words, but at how easily they struck at something true, deep inside her. Suddenly, the air around them felt thick with something she couldn’t name, something she didn’t want to name.

Then she pulled back. Not abruptly or coldly, but with an obvious deliberateness, putting much needed space between them. She let her hand fall and took a step away, then another, turning from him as if something in the room suddenly demanded her attention. The familiar clutter of the shop gave her somewhere to put her hands, something to straighten that didn’t need straightening.

“So what if there is? You have a girlfriend,” she reminded him, letting the words settle between them, an emotional distance to add to the physical space she’d just created.

Theo didn’t answer.

“You want to find her,” Augustine went on, brushing her fingers along the edge of a display table, aligning a deck that was already perfectly square. “That’s why you’re here. That’s why I’m doing this.” She glanced back at him briefly, then away again. “I’m doing this for her. For you.”

“Augustine—”