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He lets go of my shoulder and catches me around the wrist in a loose cuff, his fingers stroking the underside.
“C’mon,” he says, taking my hand.
I shake myself awake, fumbling for my bag and trying to reorient myself with a yawn.
We’re the last ones off, even the old woman who’d been so lovestruck is gone, and as we step off—disaster.
My foot sticks on something.
Oh, no.
Yep, here it comes, the other shoe dropping when everything was going so well—only this time it’s literal.
I trip and go crashing down after him.
He’s there in a single blink, catching me in those unshakeable hands, bracing me, molding my body against his chest. My legs go weak.
Now?
Now I’m awake.
I’m clutching at his arms, staring up in disbelief, my breaths knocked clean out of me.
His inner gentleman emerges to stun me again as he sets me on my feet, then lightly bumps his knuckles under my chin.
“No more sleepwalking, Callie. Fortunately, where we’re going next will damn well wake you right up.”
Why am I the only one with my heart in full sprint?
How is he so fricking calm?
Why am I so disappointed?
I curl my fingers in the strap of my bag with a buttery smile and trail after him. “We’re not going back to the hotel?”
Roland tosses another caustic smirk over his shoulder. It must be a trick of the light for him to still look so playful, so eager, so mischievous rather than diabolical.
“It’s not a tour if we only visit one place, is it? Come. Our Uber’s almost here.”
I’m so confused.
More by myself than anything else.
Stop it. This isn’t a date, I remind myself.
So stop reading so much into everything.
A silver sedan pulls up on the sidewalk just outside the tour depot’s lot. Roland checks his phone, then eyes the plates before holding the door open for me and following me inside.
I check my curiosity.
I know my boss well enough to know that asking where we’re going only gets me teased and eaten alive by his enjoyment, watching me squirm with curiosity.
Oh, but I’m squirming with something, all right.
Let’s call it curiosity for the sake of my pride.
I don’t get to be curious for long.
It’s a short ride even with clogged streets turned misty gold by traffic lights.
Not much time passes before we’re let off outside a building advertising Haunted Tours of Old Austin. There’s already a gaggle of tourists milling around outside, talking among themselves with eager anticipation.
“No way. We’re going on a haunted tour?” I blink at Roland.
His eyes gleam in the shadows. “You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?”
“No.” I can’t stop my delighted laughter. “Never!”
But I wonder if I should be a little afraid of him.
It’s the last thing I ever expected.
The gardens were an elegant surprise, but this? Something this whimsical and weird and fun?
I don’t know what I know anymore.
Maybe I really don’t have a good impression of Roland Osprey behind his bosshole mask at all.
We only end up idling for a few minutes. Then the tour group pulls together and sets off on one of those darling, wonderfully awkward duck boats.
The guide up front starts off with hushed stories to set the mood as we cruise down Austin’s streets, building up each location before we arrive.
Cameras flash like lightning bugs around us.
There’s a growing tension swirling the air as we hit the first stop and everyone piles out for a closer look. It’s an old graveyard—one once rumored to be a haunt for vampires—and I love the aesthetic.
The graves are so old. Too ancient for us to upset anyone by tripping over people mourning those they’ve lost.
So it’s easy to fall into the breathlessness of it as the tour guide shows us tombs kept in perfect condition for well over a century, their doors barely cracked like the occupants just strolled out.
I’m lining up a photo on my phone, capturing the headstone of a famous Austinite from the early bluegrass days, when a deep voice invades my ear in a ridiculously drawn-out accent.
“Caroline Landry, I vant to suck your bluuud.”
I leap away from the hot breath with a squeak, slapping at my neck like I’m swatting a mosquito.
Holy hell, he didn’t.
I stare at Roland’s broad, self-satisfied grin before bursting into giddy laughter.
“You idiot.”
“Really?” He tosses his head with a harsh frown. “I think I make a convincing Dracula.”
“More like Count Chocula. Maybe The Count from Sesame Street on a bad day.”
“Pity.” His shameless grin turns dark and promising. “Perhaps you’d change your tune if I’d actually bitten you?”
“What? No!” I wag a stern finger at him. I can’t even take him seriously right now, even if that smile brings me to my knees. “Bad boss. Bad man. Behave, Mr. Osprey.”
“So formal,” he says with disdain. “Don’t you dare regress on me now when I’ve so graciously adhered to calling you Callie.”
