Page 50 of Haunted Spurs

But emotional intimacy? Letting someone get inside my head every single day?

That’s what scares me.

“No way,” I say, shaking my head.

“I’ll tell you one about me,” he says, immediately, like it’s a counteroffer.

“Doesn’t make it any more interesting,” I lie.

Ron takes a step closer.

I end up with my back almost against the window seat, trapped between him and the wall of wood behind me.

"One question each, per day..." he whispers, dipping his face toward mine. "It won't kill you, Dusk."

I stare at the curve of his lips in the shadows. I feel the heat of his body brushing against mine in the freezing gloom, and I lose the last, fragile crumb of my resistance.

I let out a long, impossibly heavy sigh of surrender.

"What is it with you," I grumble, "and always needing to talk?"

He chuckles. It's a low, warm, vibrating sound that brushes over my skin. The faint ray of moonlight catches his face for a second, and those fucking dimples carve into his cheeks, coming dangerously, lethally close to killing me on the spot.

Twenty minutes later, I turn off the shower.

I quickly dry my heated skin and wrap myself in my black terry cloth robe. I reach for my clean clothes and... nothing.

I bite my tongue in frustration. I obviously left my bag with my clothes and pajamas on the bed in the room. All Ron's fault, obviously. That man has the diabolical ability to melt my brain and short-circuit my most basic thoughts.

I take a deep breath, clutch the black edges of the robe over my chest, and slowly open the bathroom door, slipping back into our master bedroom.

The only source of light now is the small bedside lamp turned on atop the carved wooden nightstand, casting a warm, golden glow over the covers.

"No, buddy, down," Ron is murmuring, his voice reduced to a sweet, slightly stern whisper.

Ollie is comfortably sprawled right in the middle of the mattress, wagging his tail like he's the king of the world.

"Down," Ron insists, giving him gentle pats on the thigh to encourage him to get off. "You can't be up here this time, buddy... we can't bother Selene."

I take another step on the creaking floorboards.

At the sound, Ron's head snaps up, realizing I've walked back into the room.

He goes completely silent as his blue eyes slide from my face, trace the line of my neck, and then dive down to my bare legs.

His Adam's apple bobs sharply, visibly, as he swallows hard.

He's probably uncomfortable because he expects me to start screaming at him for letting Ollie on the bed.

"He can stay," I say, crossing my arms and pulling the robe tighter.

Ron jumps slightly, like I just woke him from a trance. He lifts his gaze, bringing it back to my face, and clears his throat. When he speaks, his voice is unrecognizable: hoarse, raspy, fractured.

"Sorry... it's just that he usually loves sleeping at my feet..."

I shrug, feigning an ease I definitely don't feel. "It's fine. Really."

Feeling suddenly authorized, Ollie lets out a joyful whine. He hops clumsily off the mattress and trots happily over to me. He sits at my feet and starts licking my damp calves and bare knees with his warm, sloppy tongue.