Page 42 of Love at First Fright

If I stayed perfectly still, maybe this wouldn’t end. Maybe I could just… exist here, in this strange bubble where Brad was being oh so gentle and his thumb was tracing patterns on my cheekbone and my entire body had gone liquid and pliant.

None of it made sense.

But sense seemed like a problem for Future Charlie.

“You hit your head pretty hard,” he said softly. “I’m going to carry you to that long sofa in the lounge, so you can lie down, okay?”

“Okay,” I whispered.

He slid one arm under my knees, the other behind my back. Lifted me as if I weighed nothing.

I should have protested. Should have insisted I could walk. Should have done literally anything other than let Brad Harrington—homophobic, cat-kicking, insufferable Brad—carry me through Grimthorne Manor like some damsel in distress.

But my head throbbed. My leg ached where something had bitten me. And Brad’s chest was solid and warm and his arms held me with such careful tenderness that I couldn’t bring myself to object.

He cradled me against him. His heartbeat thrummed beneath my ear.

What is going on?

Was it possible that Brad had been so horrible because he was attracted to me?! Maybe he was closeted. Maybe all that aggression had been a defence mechanism, a way to keep me at arm’s length.

No. That was ridiculous. That was wishful thinking and a concussed brain making excuses for a bigot.

Didn’t matter anyway.

None of it mattered.

“Ghosts are real,” I mumbled into his chest.

He chuckled. Low. Warm. A sound I’d never heard from him before.

“Yes. Yes they are. Very, very real.”

We reached the lounge. Brad navigated around ancient furniture with surprising grace, then lowered me onto the sofa with the same careful tenderness.

He grabbed a pillow from an armchair. Positioned it behind my head.

The pillow was thirty percent dust. I could smell it—musty and stale and probably harbouring several ecosystems worth of mites.

But Brad had chosen it for me. Had propped my head up so gently, with such obvious concern, that I couldn’t bring myself to care.

“Thank you.” My fingers twisted in the sofa fabric. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

“You need to see it to believe it.”

I frowned.

That wasn’t what he’d said yesterday. Yesterday he’d been angry. Contemptuous. Had called me a liability and suggested I’d get myself killed within the week.

But maybe the head injury was scrambling my memory.

Brad sank to his knees beside the sofa. His face drew level with mine.

He looked… pained. Tired. His eyes had lost their usual sharp focus.

“Charlie…” he whispered. He leaned forward, his fingers brushed my temple, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear.

The gesture was so intimate. So… bizarre. My traitorous pulse quickened. God, I really was desperate if I would happily lower myself to lapping up the affections of this asshole.