Page 76 of Love at First Fright

Bollocks. I’d cocked this up. What if Bat decided to haunt us even more now?

“Well? Do we have a deal?” I forced the words out. Tried to sound confident. Professional. Like this was a normal business transaction and not a negotiation with a dead person.

Bat’s forehead smoothed. The lines vanished.

He extended his hand. Palm up. Long and pale fingers, black polish gleaming in the dappled light.

His lips pulled up into a smile. Not the nervous, bitten-lip expression from before. This one reached his eyes. Transformed his whole face.

I couldn’t deny it. He was… attractive. In his own quirky, emo-boy way. For a ghost. Obviously.

I reached out, fully expecting my hand to pass straight through him. To encounter nothing but cold air.

My fingers made contact.

I gasped.

Solid. He was solid. Cool skin beneath my palm. Not warm like a living person, but real. Real enough to touch. Real enough to feel.

I recoiled instinctively. Yanked my hand back.

Bat grabbed it. Fast. His fingers closed around mine, squeezing tight.

Not painful. Just… firm. Present. Undeniable.

The pads of his fingertips were rough. Callouses. Guitar callouses. I’d had those once, back when I played every day. Before I’d stopped. Before the melodies had faded, leaving my fingertips soft and useless.

“Charlie,” he said.

The way he said my name. Almost like a song. Like he was tasting the syllables. His smile widened, showing gleaming too-bright teeth.

Our hands remained clasped together. His cool. Mine warm. His thin leather collar around his throat caught the light, silver rings glinting.

Uh oh.

I suddenly got the feeling I should have probably consulted my handbook before making any deals with ghosts.

Especially ones capable of possession.

And flirting.

And puppy-dog eyes.

twelve

Bat

Ifloated.

Not with ghostliness—though obviously, yes, technically with ghostliness—but with happiness.

Charlie. Lovely, blue-eyed, musically gifted Charlie had just touched me. The real me. Not Brad’s borrowed body, but me. Pale skin and black wristbands and all the parts of myself I’d thought no one would ever see again.

And he’d agreed to play my guitar. Sort of. With conditions. But still.

The euphoria lasted approximately one minute before Charlie had insisted—insisted—on checking whether Brad was dead or not.

Which, fair, I suppose. I had hurled the bastard across the attic.