Page 70 of Love at First Fright

Fury roiled through me, hot and vicious. “You held me!” My voice shook. “You stroked my hair and said the ghosts wouldn’t hurt me while you were there!”

“I never—” He ran both hands through his hair. “This is insane. You’re insane. You’re making things up.”

“I’m not!”

“You clearly are!” He straightened to full height. All that rugby bulk, suddenly intimidating. “The only ‘feelings’ I have are about being stuck out here with some desperate, pathetic—”

He bit the word off. But I heard it anyway. What he’d almost said. What he’d stopped himself from saying.

“Say it,” I whispered.

“No.”

“Say what you were going to say.”

“Charlie—”

“Come on, Brad.” I moved even closer to him, something reckless unfurling inside me. “Don’t hold back now. Really express those feelings.”

His mouth worked. Hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. Each word precise. Controlled. “I’m genuinely sorry if you’ve developed some kind of crush on me. But that’s not my problem, mate. That’s yours. And I’ll thank you to keep your hands off me and stop inventing scenarios in your head where I’m—where we’re—”

He stepped forward. Right into my space. Close enough that I could see the pulse jumping in his throat. Close enough to smell his aftershave.

His hand shot out. Snatched up the collar of my jumpsuit. Fisted it tightly.

“Just keep your distance,” he hissed, leering over me. “Yeah?”

Something invisible seized him.

Brad’s eyes went wide. His grip on my shoulder released.

His entire body lifted off the ground.

Just rose into the air, arms pinwheeling, mouth opening in a shout of shock or fear or both.

Then he flew.

Hurled backwards across the attic like a rag doll. His back slammed into a stack of boxes with a crash that shook the rafters. Cardboard exploded. Papers erupted like confetti. Brad disappeared into the mess, buried under decades of accumulated junk.

Silence.

I stood frozen, hand still raised where Brad had grabbed me.

What the fuck.

This time, I didn’t stop to help Brad.

This time I ran.

eleven

Charlie

My trainers pounded against the attic floor. I grabbed the doorframe, momentum nearly sending me careening into the wall. The guitar clattered behind me—forgotten, discarded. My fingers wrapped around the banister. Tight. So tight the wood bit into my palms.

Down.