Page 40 of Ghosted

Cute as fuck, in a deeply concerning way.

I watch her take three photos before I say anything. She changes the angle, adjusts the lamp, shifts the book half an inch, then pauses with her finger over the button like the rib cage might suddenly blink and ruin the shot.

“You always photograph dead things, Alice?”

She doesn’t jump. I’ll give her that.

Her hand stills first, then her head turns slowly, eyes finding me in the aisle like she already knew someone was there and was just waiting to see if I had the manners to announce myself.

Spoiler. I don’t.

“Johnny,” she says, flat and unimpressed.

I smile. “You remembered.”

“You’re memorable in a restraining-order kind of way.”

“Oh, I like that.” I step out from between the shelves, dragging one finger along the spine of an old book as I pass. “Specific. Mean. Little bit flirty if I ignore the obvious insult.”

Alice turns back to her book like I’m already boring her. “It wasn’t flirty.”

“Most things aren’t until I decide they are.”

Her eyes lift just enough to cut me a look. “What are you doing down here?”

“Library things.”

“You read?”

“I know.” I stop at the end of her table and put a hand to my chest. “Pretty and literate. It must be overwhelming.”

“I’ll survive.”

“Now, that’s very optimistic of you.”

The corner of her mouth moves before she shuts it down, and I file that away because she really does hate giving reactions. It’s adorable. Annoying too, but mostly adorable.

I glance at the open book. “Ribs?”

“For a project.”

“Very dark.”

“Dark? It’s anatomy.”

“Still dark. Don’t ruin this for me with scientific terms.”

She sets the camera down but keeps one hand near it, fingers curling around the strap like she thinks I won’t notice. Protective. Immediate. People always tell you what they care about by what they reach for first when someone gets too close.

With Alice, it’s the camera.

With Jagger, it’s his fists.

With me? Well, it depends who’s asking and whether there are witnesses.

Alice follows my gaze to her hand, then gives me a bored look. “You followed me.”

I blink at her like she just accused me of something tacky. “Followed you?”