Page 218 of Love at First Fright

“Sorry, it’s just…” His lips twitched. “I just kissed Brad.”

I scowled. “Well, don’t pretend you’d never fantasised about that. I saw the way you eyed up his thighs on the daily.”

Charlie’s laughter burst out of him—bright and breathless and absolutely perfect. The sound wrapped around my ribcage, squeezed tight.

I let go of one of his hands to gesture down at myself, taking in Brad’s broad shoulders, those obscene muscles, the whole disgustingly healthy specimen of toxic masculinity. “And now I have to live in this body.” I shuddered dramatically. “This is my life now. Forever looking like a gym advertisement.”

“We’ll grow your hair out,” Charlie said, grinning through the blood still streaking his face. “Dye it black. And once we’ve spent two months on the sofa watching rom-coms together, eating nothing but crisps, all those muscles will fade away.”

We.

Together.

Two months.

The words hit me like the opening chord of a song I’d been trying to write my entire life and had finally, finally found.

He was talking about us like we were already a fact. Not a possibility. Not a “maybe if we’re lucky.” Just… us.

I lifted him off his feet and spun, ignoring his startled yelp. The world blurred—grey sky and burning manor and wet grass all bleeding together. My chest felt too full, like someone had pumped helium directly into my lungs. Dizzy. Elated. Utterly fucking alive.

When I set him down, Charlie was laughing again, steadying himself against my chest.

“Although,” he said, fingers walking down my torso, “these muscles do have certain advantages.” His hand slid lower. He squeezed my new, rather firm ass. His eyebrows waggled. “Advantages we will be taking full advantage of in the meantime.”

“Fuck. I love you. I love you so much.”

Charlie’s eyes flashed wide.

Oops. Had I really said that out loud? My stomach plummeted. This was it—this was the moment. The precise second where I’d gone too far, pushed too hard, scared him off with deranged declarations of love when we’d barely had time to process any of this.

Bartholomew Whitmore, still fucking everything up, even when given a whole second chance at life.

“I love you too,” Charlie whispered.

I melted. Actually felt my knees go weak, had to lock them to stay upright. Twenty-three years of life, twenty-seven long years of death, and I’d never experienced anything close to this—this impossible wonderful warmth flooding every corner of me.

“We’re going to be epic,” I managed, grinning so hard my face hurt.

Charlie grinned back, blood on his teeth and stars in his eyes. “We’re going to be absolutely fucking epic.”

“Hello?!”

We both turned.

A bloke stood on the other side of the iron gates, face pressed between the bars. Forties, maybe. High-vis vest over a grease-stained shirt. He clutched a clipboard like a shield.

“I’m here with the tyres you ordered?” His gaze slid past us to Grimthorne Manor. Orange flames licked from every window. Black smoke roiled into the sky, thick enough to blot out the clouds. “But umm… should I call the fire brigade?!”

He pointed unnecessarily at the inferno, the heat of it pulsing against my back in waves. Something inside the manor groaned—a death rattle of timber and stone. More glass shattered.

“Yes please,” I said politely.

“Hold on a minute…” The mechanic squinted at me. “Brad? Brad Harrington? Fuck me, now there’s a face I thought I’d never see again! You’re retired, right? My cousin played against you back in—”

Charlie started laughing. A laugh so manic it bordered on unhinged.

I glanced at Evelyn, who’d dropped to her knees in the grass. Phone pressed to her ear. Sirens wailed in the distance—emergency services were already on their way.