Chapter Ten

I struggled out of the chair and backed away until my hip banged into the corner of the counter. "Who… What…"

The transparent guy—okay, I guess I could say it.

The ghost.

The ghost pointed at the screen. "Did you write this?"

"N-n-no?"

He straightened, folding his arms over his chest. "Did you write it or not?"

His voice had a breathy quality, but I didn't think it was because he was trying to be flirty. In fact, his tone was decidedly severe. But it was as though he were speaking through some kind of filter or obstruction. The vocal equivalent of gauze over a camera lens.

"I didn't," I croaked. "I was just trying to decide whether to accept the job to rewrite it."

He glanced down at the screen. "Don't bother. It's not salvageable."

"I'd actually, um, come to that deci—"

Wait a minute. Why was I discussing this stupid project with a ghost? Weren't there more pertinent questions to ask?

"Who are you? And why are you in my house?"

Unfortunately, we both asked exactly the same questions simultaneously.

"Your house?" Simultaneous again. "This is my house." And we might as well sign up for a hockey chorus because that made it a hat trick.

I edged further away, glancing around wildly for Gil. He was sitting next to the table, his fluffy tail wrapped around his feet, gazing up at the transparent guy. Considering he'd never come near Greg without the fur on his back erect like a ginger stegosaurus, that either meant the transparent guy—was I really going to accept he was a ghost?—was either not threatening, or else Gil was a terrible judge of character.

Then again, he'd been right about Greg.

Nevertheless, I didn't want to take a chance. I darted forward and scooped Gil up, then backed away. What was a safe distance? How fast could the transparent guy—okay, okay, the ghost —move? Could he just pop up wherever he liked, or did he have to walk from place to place like any non-ghost?

Jeez, there was so much I didn't know about this situation. And given that neither Saul nor Patrice, nor apparently anybody else in Ghost, had ever had a close encounter like this, it's not like I could contact them for advice. They'd be just as clueless as I was.

I gave myself a mental facepalm. Why not ask the real expert, Maz? AKA, the one who's standing right in front of you .

"So. Are you a ghost?"

He glared at me. "Are you?"

"No!"

"How do you know?" His tone was a combination of belligerence and what sounded like dread.

"Because… Because…" Okay, how did you prove you were alive and not a margarita-induced hallucination, which I still wasn't sure this guy wasn't? "Because I have a cat. I drive a car. I have past due bills. I have an ex-boyfriend who wouldn't be able to torment me with his passive-aggressive behavior if I were a ghost. Only somebody who's alive can have this much bad luck."

He snorted a laugh. "I wouldn't be too sure about that."

"So, who—"

The doorbell rang. I glanced over my shoulder. From where I stood, I could see the front door, and through the wavery glass of its half-moon light, a pair of dark eyes topped by a shock of smooth dark hair. Ricky . Thank goodness.

I jerked a thumb toward the foyer. "I'll just, um, get that."

The ghost shrugged, and then turned back to my laptop, his lips twisting in a sneer as he read. And yeah, couldn't blame him for that.

I scuttled toward the door, a complaining Gil tucked under my arm, and flung it open, perhaps with a little too much force.

Ricky's eyes widened and he took a step back. "Hi. Is this a bad time?"

I glanced back through the family room. The judgmental ghost was still sneering at my laptop. "Jury's kinda still out on that."

"I wanted to make sure you got home okay." He smiled diffidently, his hands tucked in the pockets of his Wranglers. "You had quite a few margaritas."

"We all did."

He chuckled. "That's true, I guess." His shoulders hunched a little. "I wanted to ask you something. You mentioned an ex-boyfriend."

"Yeah," I said slowly. "What about him?"

His tongue darted out and he licked his lips. "Are you seeing anybody now?"

I glanced over my shoulder again. Ghost still there . "You could say that."

His shoulders fell. "Oh. Well. That's cool. I just—"

"Do you want to come in?" I blurted.

My 180 must have startled him because he blinked. "But if you're already seeing somebody—"

"It's not like that. And I have, er, a question. About the house."

He studied me, eyebrows bunched. "Oookay." But he stepped inside. As he passed me, Gil pushed against my chest and lunged at him. Rickey caught him effortlessly. "Hey, Gil."

I led the way to the kitchen, accompanied by Gil's bone-rattling purr. The ghost was frowning at my laptop, paying zero attention to us. I pointed at him. "What's up with that?"

Ricky set Gil down, much to the cat's annoyance. "The window shades? I know they're a little outdated—"

"No, not the shades."

"The table? If you want to expand it, I can show you where the leaf is."

"No, not the table." I threaded my hands through my hair. "Isn't there anything odd about this scenario?"

He scrunched up his face in confusion, which was frankly adorable. "You mean your laptop?"

"Yes." I thrust my palms outward in a ta da gesture. "Exactly. Thank you."

"I understand if you're uncomfortable working at the desk in the library, but there's a workspace in the main bedroom, too."

My hands were suddenly too heavy to hold up, and I let my arms drop. He can't see the ghost . "Right."

"There's another in the bedroom in the opposite turret if you'd rather keep your work and living areas separate. I think Oren was planning to use that as his office."

The ghost's head shot up, and the look on his face—yikes. Devastation? Fury? Longing? All of the above? I braced myself for him to rush us, but instead, he disappeared. I guess that answered the transport question—unless he was still there and just invisible, which was… creepy.

I sighed. "Yeah. I've got to admit I was a little freaked about working in there, with my back to the room." I smiled weakly. "Thanks for the advice."

"No problem. So…" He peered at me from under his brows, his brown cheeks tinged with pink. "Since you're not really seeing anyone, would you like to maybe grab dinner with me sometime?" He grimaced. "Just the two of us, I mean. And maybe not in a restaurant with my family checking us out every minute."

My smile widened. "I'd like that."

"Really?" His whole face seemed to glow. "That's great. That's— How about tomorrow?"

I had to laugh. He really was adorable. Granted, we didn't exactly know one another, but I didn't think he was punking me with the ghost stuff anymore, considering I'd seen evidence to the contrary. More or less. But that's what dating was for, right?

"I'm not sure what tomorrow will look like. I'm starting work at the Manor in the morning, and until I can get an idea of the scope, I'm not sure what my schedule will be like. Maybe check in at around four? See where I'm at? Unless that's not enough time or—"

"No! No, that's fine." He held out one square, capable hand. "Want me to put my contact info in your phone?"

"Sure." I pulled it out of my pocket and handed it over. We did the whole contact-text-contact routine. "And thanks for your help with the locks…" Right. The locks . "You know, when I got home and tried to unlock the door, the keyhole was stuffed with sawdust again. It was only the fact you'd showed me how to reprogram the garage door that I was able to get inside."

His brows shot up. "Really? That's… Well, I won't say impossible because weirder things can happen, but highly improbable. It's a little off the mason bee life cycle for this area, and their nest detritus isn't technically sawdust, anyway."

"Okay, so sawdust-like. What else could do that?"

"Not sure. Termites and carpenter ants both affect wood, but their damage wouldn't be so localized, and they wouldn't be interested in the metal lock mechanism."

Termites . Ugh. I hated to think of my house under siege by insects as well as specters. "Do you think that's likely?"

"Not really. Besides, I check for insect damage on this place every year when I look over Tia Sofia's house and I've never seen any indication." He gestured to the door. "Mind if I take a look?"

"Be my guest."

I followed him to the door and caught Gil up when Ricky opened it and knelt to check out the lock.

"You're right. It's blocked again." He rose. "I've got my toolbox outside in my truck, though, so I'll make sure both locks are clear tonight. That okay? Shouldn't take me long."

"That would be great. Thanks." We stood there for a moment, grinning at one another, and for an instant, I thought he might lean close enough for a kiss. But instead, he raised one hand and slipped outside, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him.

I sat on the stairs again, earning myself a lapful of Gil. I sighed as I petted him, listening to Ricky humming in counterpoint to his tools.

"Is this a bad idea, Gil? I don't have the greatest track record with men. And this is a small town. If it doesn't work out, things could get… awkward ."

On the other hand, things could turn out great. I really needed to stop sabotaging myself, even in my head. Yeah, Greg had been a mistake. And so had Neal before him, and Terry before that. But my luck had to turn sometime, right? After all, I had a home now, so why not a boyfriend?

My hands stilled on Gil's back and he nudged my arm with his nose to get them moving again. Yes, I had a home. But my home came with a judgmental ghost. A judgmental ghost whom apparently my cat and I could see, but Ricky could not.

I needed information from somebody with more experience. But where did you find somebody with actual expertise as opposed to a scam artist looking to take advantage of grieving people desperate to contact departed loved ones?

Well, my situation was slightly different: I didn't want to contact a loved one. I wasn't sure what I wanted, but it wasn't waking up, never knowing if my home had been trashed overnight from ghost diva fits.

I pulled out my phone and did a web search for ghosts, banishing of . Page after page of alleged paranormal investigators, a couple of sketchy fundamentalist exorcists, and wait…

Marguerite Windflower, Psychic Counselor .

She had a twenty-four-hour emergency number. What was the worst that could happen? Based on her website, she was located in Sarasota, so it's not like she could show up on my doorstep or send the clairvoyant cops after me. I hoped.

So I took a deep breath and dialed the number.