Which would be fine if I wasn’t also still texting Ghost every day.
My phone buzzes right on cue.
GHOST:Don’t forget sunscreen.
I roll my eyes and bite back a smile.
ME:I don’t have any. I’ll buy some on the way.
I told him about the trip, kind of hoping he would say something to stop me. Surprisingly, he even encouraged it—said it would be a great time to bond with my brother. On the other hand, I haven’t told him we’d be in a house full of NHL players. I don’t think he’d be encouraging it if he knew.
My fingers fly across the screen.
ME:Though, what’s the point if you’re not here to help me with it.
GHOST:Give me an address and I’ll be there.
Shaking my head, I type a fictional address that may or may not be Harry Potter’s.
ME:4 Privet Drive
His reply comes instantly.
GHOST:When did you last collect your mail? Place is covered in it.
I huff out a laugh, knowing he loves Harry Potter just as much as I do.
ME:Been locked under the stairs for a while. Couldn’t greet the mailman.
GHOST:Wanna get locked in my basement next? I promise to feed you.
I haven’t even fully read the message yet before another one comes in.
GHOST:And not just your mouth.
My tummy does that little flip again and my teeth clamp over my bottom lip. He always does this—starts sweet, ends suggestive. Ghost flirts like a reflex, like breathing.
But for the past couple of days, something’s been different. His messages feel more specific. He’s holding back less, saying things he used to dance around.
Maybe I’m reading too much into it.
I sigh, leaning back on my elbows as my brain swirls. There’s a part of me that feels guilty. That gross, twisting guilt you feel when you know you’re emotionally invested in one person but keep thinking about another.
I shouldn’t feel like this about Jace. He seems like the kind of man who makes eye contact like he’s taking inventory of what you’d look like bent over a kitchen island.
And still, that night in the kitchen, the weight of him pressed against me, his voice against my ear—
“I’m starting to think you like it when I corner you.”
And I think… maybe I do too.
“I’m not going,” I say, crossing my arms like that’s going to do anything to Dominic—a man used to bossing people around and a full-time control freak.
Dom raises one eyebrow. Which is unfair, because it’s only an eyebrow, and still somehow scary. He’s not just intimidating; he’s professionally intimidating. That eyebrow would have a full boardroom shaking in their Gucci loafers.
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed.
“You’re going,” he says simply.
