Page 104 of Find My Way Down to You

His glare has very little heat behind it. “Stop trying to steal my dog.”

“Is she—” I stop, wincing. I’d forgotten the harshest part of death. “Wasshe Bernice’s?”

“No. Someone else’s.”

A small relief relaxes my jaw. I look out the window. Dappled rays of sunlight break through patches of gum tree leaves. “Are there more souls waiting?”

“Always.”

“For you?” My eyes flit back to him.

Gently, he brushes a hand over the dog’s thick fur. “Not in this realm. They wait for the others.”

My memory jumps to all the faces Henri told me about in the ballroom. Deathless of dreams and nightmares and vengeance.

“So, we’re done?”

“Depends.” Cary studies me. “Am I still cold to you? Nothing more than a ferrier?”

I rub my chin, considering. “Maybe?” There’s humor in my voice. A smile I can’t fight.

“I am not who you think I am, August.”

“I know.” My answer comes without hesitation.

For a long minute, his eyes search mine. A question circles his black irises:Do you?

I stand and offer him my hand. “Take me back to Santa Barbara. There’s something I want to show you.”

“And what is that?”

My smile widens. “You ask too many questions, Cary.”

15

It’s after sunsetwhen I punch in the code to unlock my mom’s greenhouse.

Sorbet skies stream rose and tangerine through the glass dome roof. Dreamy floral notes tickle my nose. The flowers and plants seem so alive at this hour. I look over my shoulder. Cary is close behind, eyeing everything.

I spread my arms out wide. “Welcome to another one of my favorite places!”

Cary wanders down an aisle. “It is beautiful.”

“Yeah,” I exhale, a quiet laugh chasing my words. We were just in Soho. Tokyo. Georgia. The farthest I’d ever been before today was Anaheim for a family trip to Disneyland when I was eight.

But this greenhouse stands up to all those places. Reverie held safe behind glass.

When I look again, Cary’s stare is centered on me. Unwavering. Does he find me beautiful too?

A blush streaks up my neck. Hot and distracting. I refocus to tell him about my mom’s love for plants. The history behind her family and the greenhouse. Everything I can remember.

“I’m terrible at growing things,” I confess, fingering the petals of a red larkspur.

A look dances on his face. Amusement? Surprise?

“I’m serious. I kill every houseplant my mom gives me.” I giggle. “It’s pretty tragic.”

“Like your dancing,” Cary suggests, that wicked curve to his mouth making it hard to scowl back at him.