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I didn’t think I’d get one, even joking with him, after making a complete ass of myself like I did. He’s very serious and buttoned up, and no one has really found me funny in the last three years. The most I hoped for was a shocked smile, maybe a raised eyebrow he tried to make intimidating.
But he laughed, so genuinely he almost covered his mouth to keep it in and hide it from me. Like he’s scared of what I’ll do if he lets me in deep enough to see him…happy.
I vow, right here, half naked and looking like an absolute hot mess, to make him trust me enough to laugh freely.
“Back to the loft, please,” he says, shattering my perfect daydream with the cold, dark reality he’s leaving me all alone up here. “I have other things to do with my night.”
It’s not late, so this shouldn’t surprise me. Chuck did say Ghost was a very busy man, has lots of businesses and even more money and power. Something about the Saint family being one of the most vicious families in New York or whatever.
The calmness in Ghost’s voice when he shot Chuck leads me to believe that’s all true, and, for the most part, he’s not a man to be trifled with.
But he’s also the most skittish creature I’ve ever come across, so I’m determined he has more experience with guns than he does with women. I wonder if he’s ever been kissed before…
I haven’t. Well, once, by a sort-of-boyfriend when I was in high school, but I didn’t kiss him back, so I’m not counting it. And even I don’t jump that hard when someone touches me. Not even when Ghost did, and there’s no way he finds me more attractive and intimidating than I do him.
Picking myself up from the floor, I realize that’s a lie. But I really didn’t think he was reaching for me to do anything nice. I got clingy and scared, and I know men hate that. Ghost has felt so safe for now. I just don’t want to make him treat me like Chuck, or even Jackson, did.
Hedid sayhe doesn’t think I’m pathetic, so… I guess I’m doing okay.
“Okay,” I say. “Thank you, again, for taking me in.”
He grunts, which I’m learning is just his form of communication. I’ll figure out what he’s trying to say the more time we spend together, I’m sure.
I push the button, and the elevator door opens again, letting me step back into his place. I turn back to face him again, looking over his tense frame, wondering when he’ll remember to breathe again.
“Goodnight, Mr. Ghost,” I say. Why I don’t want to call him Mr. Saint, I really have no idea. Just doesn’t sound right in my head. “I hope you sleep well.”
He straightens even more, dropping his head back against the wall just before the doors close. His voice is soft, muffled by the shiny metal doors, but I hear him mumble, “Goodnight, Lucy.” There’s another clunk from his head, and he adds, “I won’t. I never do.”
I rest my fingers against the reflective surface, wishing I could touch him without sending him flying into the ceiling. I really think he needs more physical contact in his life, even if it’s just driving with someone in his passenger seat.
“Me neither, Ghost,” I whisper back.
My heart hurts. I hope he comes back soon.
I wonder if he knows how thin the walls are for me to have heard him talking to himself in there—
“I DID NOTHING.”
That would be a nope. I press my ear to the door, my stomach twisting over itself. He didn’t sound scared, and it’s hard to even picture him that way, but I can’t help but panic the cops caught up to him for, y’know, the whole murdering Chuck under a bridge thing.
The second voice is far more muffled. Normal speaking volume, no authority or aggression to be found. He sounds like the guy who said Chuck wasn’t my daddy. “…hy are you yelling?”
Thank God, he’s just being dramatic with his brother. I can handle that.
“I’m NOT yelling, I…” His voice fades off as the elevator door closes, and I smack the floor. Dang it. Why not a stairwell? I could eavesdrop so much easier on a stairwell.
Fine, fine. Good girls don’t eavesdrop and for what are probably really stupid reasons, I don’t think Ghost is setting out to murder me in my sleep.
It takes far too long to figure out how to open his motion censored robot of a trash can, but I shove the stupid tank top in it. It was made to be ripped off, and I never want to see it again. I’m pretty sure it had a trick stitch in the bust, anyway. Then, I go for his fridge.
Everything in here is freakishly organized. Drinks and fruit and meat are set out in neat little rows, with dairy products and condiments set out on the door. I’m pretty sure it’s alphabetized on purpose, too, and there’s not a single thing approaching an expiration date.
Tell me you have too much time and money without telling me you have too much time and money…
I pick up a peach, but stall. He didn’t say anything about me eating his food. And there’s no way he wouldn’t notice if something went missing.
My stomach rumbles pitifully, but I put the peach back, trying to set it at the same angle I found it. Worry heats my face, and I close the door as quietly as possible.
