“Your coffee,” he drawls, head tilting to the side.
I take the coffee he offers on autopilot. My pulse spikes as our fingers brush. He hands it over like the devil handing Eve the apple.
“I, uh.” I clutch the cup with both hands. “I’m gonna leave now.”
His grin deepens, eyes shamelessly dropping one last time to my thighs as he leans against the counter with zero shame and all the weaponized testosterone in the world.
“Only if you promise to walk slower on the way out.”
My mouth opens but no sound comes out. No smart-ass comeback, no only if you promise to go screw yourself. My brain short-circuits and immediately fires off three conflicting thoughts all at once. One—Ghost would totally say that. Two—this is not Ghost. Three—I need to put on a bra. Immediately.
I backpedal, half power walking for the stairs, gripping my coffee. As I reach the landing, I hear a little amused scoff, low and smug.
Who is this man?
And why does everything about him feel like someone gave Ghost a body, put it through a car wash of sin, and dropped him in my kitchen?
No.
I refuse to project Ghost onto this man just because I secretly hope Ghost looks like that too. This guy probably thinks emotional intimacy is a cologne. And I should most definitely stay away from him.
The house is quiet for once.
Dom left an hour ago for some team thing. Probably a strategy meeting or a gym circuit. Whatever it is, he took him with him. Thank God.
It’s not that I can’t be around him.
It’s that my body reacts like a fire alarm when he breathes within six feet of me.
And yes, I might be overreacting. But when your nipples say good morning before your mouth does, you start limiting your exposure to shirtless, tattooed athletes who look at you like they want to ruin your entire life.
So, I’ve claimed the living room.
Blanket burrito on the couch, coffee refilled, laptop balanced on a cushion.
The soft hum of lo-fi plays from the speaker as I scroll through real estate listings, chewing absently on my thumbnail. I’m toggling between tabs—“Retail spaces for lease,” “Florist startup,” and fifteen more—when my phone buzzes beside me.
GHOST:If the dream I had of you last night isn’t the death of me, this fucking meeting will be.
My stomach flips the same way it does each time he texts me.
ME: I didn’t know carpenters had meetings.
A couple minutes later, my screen lights up again with his reply. It’s an image—a stock photo of a forest.
GHOST:My colleagues.
I let out a soft snort and move my laptop to my side, fully focused on my phone now.
ME:They look very down to earth. Are they pining for approval?
GHOST:Two puns in a row? Outstandingly atrocious work.
I smile. The kind of slow, involuntary smile that only he can bring out.
I type back.
ME:Should I sit in the corner and think about what I’ve done?
