Page 17 of Old Flames

“I didn’t know we had one,” Jules said. “And joint custody, too?”

“That would be fun.”

His charm was studied, weaponized. He knew what people wanted from him and served it up accordingly. But what did she want from him? To say, casually, I remember you. Or better yet: I haven’t forgotten.

“What I meant to say is, ghostly as he looks, he’s not the one haunting these halls. That would be his young bride, Aurora.”

“Is that a fact?” Jules asked.

“So the story goes,” he said. “Take it with a grain of salt.”

Jules focused on the miniature portrait of the young woman displayed in the plexiglass case. Rosy cheeks, bright eyes, lustrous curls piled high, Aurora looked happy. It could not have been a faithful rendering, considering her fate.

“I don’t get it,” Jules said. “This is a great house, but why not move on? Seems like a waste of an eternity.”

“In life as in death?” he said.

“Did you take part in last night’s séance?” she asked.

“I hosted it,” he said. “In my turret.”

“Your what?”

“Ah, that’s right,” he said with an easy smile. “You’re the only one who hasn’t seen it.”

“I don’t think I know you well enough for that.”

“Ha!”

Why was this so easy? She, usually so withdrawn, downright standoffish in the company of new acquaintances, gravitated effortlessly toward him.

“I didn’t attempt to summon any spirits,” he said. “It’s not my thing, but it was interesting to watch. Will you join us next time?”

“Sure. I don’t want to miss out on all the fun.”

He waited a beat. “Vicky said you were comatose.”

“I was,” Jules admitted.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked. “You left the party in a hurry.”

His tone was more intimate than it had any right to be. “I don’t know.”

His gaze lingered on her face. When had she turned her back on the portrait on the wall to devote her attention to him?

“We haven’t met, have we?” he said.

“We haven’t,” Jules said, her voice clipped.

That settled it. He didn’t remember her or their first encounter and that was fine. Frankly, she should’ve long forgotten herself and committed to forgetting now.

“I’m Leo,” he said.

“Is that short for anything?” she asked.

“Other than astrologically, no. I’m a Leo. My birthday is in August.”

Why did that make her insanely happy? “July,” she said. “For roughly the same reasons.”