Page 4 of Hot Ghost Summer

“So, when we get in t’ building, are there just going t’ be wee ghosties—”

I hold up a finger to silence Theo while I wait for the map to orient.

If looks could kill… I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from smiling.

Shielding my eyes with my hand, I finally turn my attention to him. “When we get there, I make the rules. You listen to what I say. Is there going to be a problem with that?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “With my hearing? No problem at all.”

I study him for a moment before continuing. “Clawson and Stoker, now referred to as the client, would like us to assess Plot Forty-Seven—an unfinished building on a larger worksite they acquired some years back. They recently gained planning permission, but since work began, there’s been four major incidents with no apparent cause. Now no crew will set foot on site.

“There are no plumbing or electricals to contend with, and that’s either going to be a blessing or a massive complication. Either way, our job is to do a detailed walk-through, paying attention to any cold spots or other unusual sensations, and to establish baseline readings of EMF, temperature, moisture, and visible light. Have you ever done telemetry before?”

The aggressive slurp of a drink through a straw diverts my attention, and I lower my hand away from my eyes.

“Tell-me-what?” Theo asks, not even caring to remove the straw of his iced tea from between his lips when he speaks.

“Telemetry,” I answer automatically. “Did you hear any of what I just said?”

Theo shrugs. “I mean, we go in t’ building. Look around. See some ghosts—or don’t. It’s my first day. I can’t imagine I’d be sent on site if it was actually dangerous, and besides… it’s the middle o’ the day.”

My gaze drifts to the melting ice in his cup, then to Theo’s mouth, before working back up to his eyes. His brows are set low—because heaven forbid he spin that cap around the proper way so it can do its job—and the bridge of his nose is wrinkled, highlighting the smattering of freckles that spread across his face.

“It’s also hot as balls.” He takes another loud slurp.

Game on, Baby.

Leaving the heavy holdall of equipment on the sun-scorched pavement, I march north toward the address the client provided. As I walk, I count in my mind—one, two, three, four…

Then comes Theo’s aggravated curse, “Shit!” followed by the heaving of the bag onto his shoulder, and a harried, “Wait!”

I don’t wait. The Clawson & Stoker worksite isn’t far.

Cutting a left, I take the direct route through a narrow park that runs parallel to the road. The shade from the tall trees is a welcome reprieve from the baking urban heat that has beset the city this last week.

Away from the heavy hum of constant traffic, and out from under the weight of the ExorSquad equipment, I find the space to clear my mind. Theo is a colleague—we’re at work. I stretch out my fingers, stiff from carrying the bag. As much as my inner Dom might want to test Theo out, see if he’s what I think he is… I can’t.

“I don’t live far from ’ere.” Theo’s charming Northern accent could probably defrost an iceberg. It washes over me, flooding my mind despite everything I just told myself.

“Well, I say not far, but I’m speaking country. It’s a couple o’ miles that way.” He thumbs behind him. “What is it with Londoners and needing t’ take the train everywhere? Stuff’s not even far, but they’d rather sweat their arses off on the Underground than just walk a bit. Anyway, this park—if you follow it south—cuts all the way down t’ the North Circular and Arnos Grove. Where I live.”

I steal a surreptitious glance; I didn’t know that. I guess I’m one of those Londoners, then, who for six months has taken the Tube to work when I could’ve enjoyed a tree-lined stroll instead. I’d have preferred that.

Clicking the map off, I repocket my phone. “Well, just at the end of this path, and to the east, is a small road that leads to your wee ghosties.”

Theo barks out a laugh. “I love how you say that. Vee ghoschtis. Where is it you’re from?”

In spite of myself, I smile. “My family’s estate is hidden away in the Ötschergräben Canyon. Austria.”

Theo makes a low whistle and skips a bit to keep pace. “Mister Pickett said you’re a prince. I thought he was joking like, but you just said ‘My family’s estate.’ We have a couple o’ estates up where I’m from, where all the toffs shoot grouse and drink whisky…” He screws his face up into a look of disgust, and I have to agree with his assessment. “You one o’ them princes?”

“I suppose. But on my estate, we drink tea and shoot wee ghosties.”

Theo stops dead.

“Holy shit. You are a prince, then. I’m… not a prince.” He yanks his cap off to scratch through to his sweat-soaked hair underneath. “The opposite, really. I think maybe my grandad worked his way up t’ groundsman once… for a bit. Mostly we’re a family o’ mechanics and farm hands.”

He resets his cap and rushes to catch up. “My sister wants t’ open her own hair salon, but I don’t know if cutting her kid’s hair in the kitchen counts as experience enough, really.”