We wander on, and I fall a half step behind him. He’s confident in a way that should annoy me. I was sure it did. Now, I don’t know what to do with the part of me that keeps seeking him out, pulled in by some magnetic force I definitely didn’t agree to.
His hand finds the small of my back as he guides me toward the town hall. Music thumps from inside, and through the windows, I can see bodies dancing beneath the warm glow of purple and orange string lights.
“You ready?”
I look at him—this ridiculous, devastating man in a nun costume—and my stomach twists. “Do I have a choice?”
“Always.” He says it so simply, like I could change my mind about everything, and he wouldn’t hold it against me. Which is new. I’m used to handling everything because there is no other choice.
I run my hands over my costume one last time. A crowd slowly filters into the town hall. “Let’s go.”
We pass through the haunted cemetery that the Halloween committee set up. Fog rolls low around the hand-painted tombstones, the air thick with woodsmoke from the Rotary Club’s bonfire over on the left of the wide front lawn. We weave through the maze, colored lights flashing before a projection screen hits the front of the town hall, and a roar echoes over the speakers tucked behind the hay bales. For a moment, it’s as if the building comes to life.
My hand reaches out, holding on to Jack’s without thinking better of it as we finally make it to giant granite stairs lined with lit jack-o'-lanterns. Their flickering faces cast shadows dancing around our feet.
Jack takes the final step, and an animatronic witch launches itself at him with a mechanical cackle.
“Son of a bitch!” He jumps back, yanking me behind him to shield me from the shrieking plastic decoration.
Maybe it’s the Fireball, or maybe it’s that I’m giggling too hard, but I lean my forehead against his back. My hand grips his hip to keep myself steady, and when he finally turns, his brows drawn, I don’t miss him staring at my mouth.
“Think that’s funny?”
I nod, wiping away tears, and am rewarded with a crooked grin that might as well pull me closer. I sway, focusing on his lips.
“Hey,” he whispers, breaking the spell.
I blink, shaking my head, the heat of embarrassment bright on my cheeks.
I’m not going to kiss Jack. No kissing, no sex, no feelings, right? Those rules are in place for a reason. A good reason…
Pull it together, Izzy.
I spin, grab his wrist, and drag him inside as the Yeah Yeah Yeahs blare over the speakers by the DJ booth.
It seems like all of Merritt Point is staring at us as we step inside. The room is crowded, and I swear, last year, when I baked a cake for the cake walk, there weren’t as many people here as there are now.
My smile tightens. Jack’s hand finds the small of my back again. Just his palm, warm through the thin fabric of my corset. It’s such a small thing. Protective. Possessive, even. I think I like it a little.
“Let’s get a drink,” he murmurs, close enough that his lips ghost the shell of my ear.
I swear the entire room turns to watch as he guides me toward the bar. Linda from the post office stares, her punch cup frozen halfway to her mouth. The Pilates moms cluster together near the PTA baked goods tables, whispering behind their hands.
My heart hammers in my ears to the bass of “Thriller” over the speakers.
Jack’s thumb circles against my lower back, and heat races up my spine. I don’t know if he’s even aware he’s doing it. His other hand lifts in a wave to someone across the room, that crooked grin of his already in place.
We weave between pirates and witches and someone dressed as an inflatable lobster. The bar’s set up near the rear of the room, orange spotlights positioned above from the rough-hewn wooden beams, casting everything in a warm glow.
I don’t know how to do this.
“Hang in there, and smile,” Jack says as we reach the bar.
I can’t believe he told me to smile, but since I’m guessing it looks as if I’ve seen a literal ghost, I play nice. “I’m not doing anything.”
“Exactly.” He stops and looks down at me, his eyes suddenly softer. “Breathing helps.”
Wyatt, the short-order cook from the diner, can’t stop peeking between us as he pours two hard ciders. “I’m not much for gossip, but it’s true about you two?”
