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My heart squeezes inside my chest. I can’t deny I’m developing feelings for my charming Yank ghost whisperer.

Deciding not to delve deeper into the implications of that newfound knowledge, I focus instead on the pleasure I’m experiencing. Beau’s touch isn’t sexual, but it feels nearly as good. As he makes his way downward and ever closer to the scars near my spine, I tense up a wee bit.

When he gently touches me there, I actually start to relax. He’s not treating that area any differently than the rest of my body and not showing any signs of revulsion.

“You’re a ball of knots back here,” he murmurs. “Please tell me you get regular massages to help with this issue.”

My ensuing silence says what I do not.

Beau lightly slaps my ass cheek.

“Hey,” I cry out.

“Callum Fraser,” he scolds. “After the kind of injury that you had, why the heck haven’t you been getting regular massages? They’re so important, especially when dealing with back and shoulder tension.”

I’m reluctant to admit that it seemed like an unnecessary expense, but I’m starting to rethink that because if an actual massage therapist is even more talented than Beau, I’ve clearly been missing out.

“You’re gonna make a promise to me that you’ll rectify this situation,” he demands.

Still face down, I grunt in agreement.

His hands resume their work and touch me like I’m something special and precious. I fall into a lull, soothed by the massage and relaxing more and more with each minute. I’ve nearly fallen asleep and am limp as a noodle when I feel him stop and climb off me. He moves to sit on the edge of the bed, stroking my hair when I turn my head to face him.

“I hope that helped, darlin’.”

“It was bloody wonderful,” I say. “Thank you. I feel so much better.”

“Relax like this for a little bit longer, and then I think following up with a hot shower and some ibuprofen will have you feeling like a brand-new man.”

My phone pings, and Beau hurries to grab it and hand it over. I lift myself up enough to read the screen, and my pulse races when I see it’s a reply from Ken Armstrong.

“Bingo!” I cry when I open the message.

Thanks for reaching out. Your historical research sounds interesting. I don’t know how much I can really tell you that you haven’t already learned, but I can share a few things about the heyday of the Midnight Vault. If you’d like to meet me for coffee at the shop across from Golden Age Gym on Oxford Street near the Oxford Circus station tomorrow morning at nine, I’m happy to chat for an hour.

I hurriedly type out a response indicating we would love to meet him then.

That gets me a thumbs-up reaction and he copies a map address for the cafe.

I grin at Beau. “Looks like we’ve got our first interview lined up.”

“Oh, goody,” he says. “I have so many questions I want to ask.”

So do I.

He waggles a finger at me. “Let me take the lead. Your aura practically radiates DI Fraser of the London Met still.”

“Fine,” I grumble.

But I plan to get to the bottom of this case no matter what—and I’m hoping Ken Armstrong can help with that.

CHAPTER

NINETEEN

Welcome back to Beau’s Boos and Beyond! Just a quick personal update—I’ve bought my plane ticket and the countdown is on. London, here I come!

Now, on to today’s topic: whether to share your interest in the supernatural with normies. This is a delicate issue, and I speak from personal experience. For folks who aren’t already invested in the study of all things otherworldly, there’s often an inherent bias or disbelief barrier. This proves particularly challenging when dating. How soon is too soon to bring it up? At what point might they be able to give me the benefit of the doubt? What if, no matter what I do, simply telling them about my beliefs sends them packing? These are questions many of us have had to ask ourselves, and more times than not, disclosing our interest in the supernatural can make friends, family, and lovers distance themselves from us in painful ways.