AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Psh! Those ghost tours are fun as hell. Let’s just go on one together. I know a couple of the guides with the best stories, and like ninety-eight percent of them are true.” I lift my brows with excitement before understanding I basically just asked him out on a date.
And that’s exactly what he thinks too, because the next words out of his mouth are “It’s a date.”
Thankfully, I don’t have to awkwardly find an excuse to correct my blunder before we reach my house. “This is it,” I tell him, and he looks up, then at the door, and then takes a few cautious steps out into the middle of the narrow road after looking both ways even though it’s a one-way street. He takes in the glory of Emmy’s and my home, eyes and mouth wide open.
“This is where you live?” he asks with awe in his voice.
“Yep,” I reply, popping the P.
“Like… is it like in New York, where it’s offices or a storefront on bottom and then your place is a super tiny apartment above?” He tilts his head, his eyes on the second story.
“Nope.” I pop the P again, pulling out my key and unlocking the front door.
I turn to watch his head bob up and down as he counts, his eyes going from the left side of the building to the right. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. You have seven posts holding up your gallery. You must be loaded,” he jokes.
I shake my head. “Nuh-uh. Corner lot, baby. We got thirteen of these bitches.” I grimace and cover my mouth. “Oops, I mean—”
“Bitches is fine. We’re a cable network.” Curtis chuckles, jogging back up onto the sidewalk and coming to stand behind me in the doorway just as a van and two cars stop in front of the building.
Martin rolls down the window of the van. “Where should we park?”
“On that side of the street wherever you see open spots. Hope you’re good at parallel parking,” I answer, and he nods, giving a little salute before he pulls forward slowly to find somewhere to park.
The last car stops next to us and the trunk pops open, showcasing all our paper bags. Following Curtis’s lead, I grab two bags as he grabs the last one and the cardboard box containing the Instant Pot before using his elbow to shut the trunk. The car then pulls forward to find parking as we head inside the front door.
Curtis
“This place is incredible,” I murmur, taking in the bottom floor of Erin’s home. The décor is a museum’s worth of architectural finds, pictures, and paintings, and I instantly recognize photos of Amelia Savageman’s parents.
“Have you met them before?” Erin asks, obviously reading the recognition on my face.
“Yes. Fascinating people. I met them when they came to watch Dean and their daughter accept a network award for their show. But the question is, why do you have all their stuff in your house?” I ask, taking in all the Egyptian artifacts around the foyer and living room, still holding the grocery bag and Instant Pot in my arms, because I haven’t made it to the kitchen yet. There’s just too much to take in.
“Emmy and I are roommates. Well, sorta. We’ve lived together since we graduated high school. Her parents relocated to Egypt when she was little and she lived here with her grandma. And when she passed away, I promised I’d stay here so Emmy wouldn’t be alone. But when she met and married Dean and joined his show, she basically demanded me not to move out. So I guess I’m the groundskeeper of the manor,” she says the last bit with a put-on British accent, and I grin.
“So ancient Egypt isn’t your décor of choice?” I ask, my eyes meeting hers.
She scrunches her nose with a shake of her head. “Definitely not. Em gets irritated with me when I don’t remember half the shit she tells me about all this.” She gestures toward a photo of a statue that looks like a dog head on a human body. “If it were my house, it’d be Joanna’d the fu—reak out.” She side-eyes Carlos still standing in the foyer, his camera aimed at us.
“Joanna’d?” I prompt.
“Joanna Gaines? Fixer Upper? She’s like, my ultimate girl crush. Oh crap, wait. Different network. Sorry.” She shrugs.
I wave my hand, dismissing her worry. “That’s like, farmhouse stuff, right? Shabby chic?”
She nods. “Exactly. I love it. All whites and grays, black-and-white buffalo plaid, silver tin canisters, shiplap everythiiing,” she singsongs. “But, alas, this isn’t my house, so pyramids and hieroglyphics it is. At least down here. My room looks like Joanna herself decorated it. I’ve tagged her ass in like, fifty-eight thousand Instagram posts, but she’s never responded. By now she probably thinks I’m some creeper stalker and is ready to serve a restraining order if I show up in Waco, Texas. And I totally wouldn’t blame her. After all, I did start growing my hair out and parting it down the middle, so it’d be just like hers.” She puts her pointer finger up to her lips as if it’s a secret, winks up at me, and then spins on her heel, leaving me to follow after her while my brain is still stuck on the mention of her bedroom.
