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I get up to open the suite door to reveal Jackson and Orion. When he sees my dress, Jackson’s eyes pop out of his head.
“I had dinner with Levi,” I say by way of explanation. “He’s this hot art historian I met in the hotel pool.”
Darkness clouds Jackson’s eyes, but Orion gives him a shove, and the pair of them move into the room without another word about it.
“Oh, goody, the whole gang is here,” Brooks drawls as he emerges from the bathroom.
He’s been locked in there ever since I returned, which is fine by me. I’d rather not have to look at him and—
Oh.Oh.
I make the mistake of turning around just as Brooks steps into the room, wearing only a white towel wrapped around his waist. I can’t help the way my eyes greedily roam over his torso, taking in his rib cage and all those beautiful tattoos and the way his pouty lips are pressed together in that hard line. Why do the most toxic guys have to be so damn delicious?
Jackson balls his hands into fists. “Brooks—”
I clamp my hand on Jackson’s shoulder and shove him back down into his seat. He’s keeping his promise to me, no matter what. First, we get rid of the ghost. Then he can have it out with his brother. I don’t even care. By the time the ectoplasm has dried on this séance, I’m going to be twenty miles out of town.
“Now that Lothario over there has graced us with his presence, we can get started. Gentlemen, if you’d take your seats.” I gesture to the setup. “The sooner we trap this ghost, the sooner we can go our separate ways.”
“A-fucking-men,” Brooks mutters, tucking his thumb into his towel, pulling it down an inch as he strides across the room toward me.
My mouth dries, and I have to force myself to look anywhere but at the extra inch of skin he reveals…
I’ve pulled the desk into the center of the room and covered it with a purple scarf I nicked from the back of Helena’s chair. Candles flicker on every surface, little tendrils of smoke curling through the air. I had to take the batteries out of the room’s smoke alarm to avoid a disaster.
On the table, I’ve laid out the travel spirit board I carry for just such occasions and the photograph of the dancing coupleand my ghost trap—the empty bottle of Dom Perignon with a hematite cork, surrounded by a circle of Becka’s crystals, which flicker between a pale orange and a bright-blue glow.
Brooks folds his body into the chair beside me. Orion watches me. I won’t show weakness in front of Brooks.
“We don’t usually use a spirit board.” Jackson swallows hard. He sits on the edge of the bed next to his brother.
“You Vault hunters are so anti-magic. If we want to chat to this ghost about his shenanigans, not just trap him, then I’m not about to volunteer to have him play puppet master with my body,” I say. “But by all means, you can volunteer to be possessed by a murderous spirit who’s just killed people.”
Jackson shakes his head.
“Good. Then we can start by linking hands.”
Brooks grabs my hand and practically crushes it in his fingers. I grit my teeth, but I won’t make the asshole happy by crying out. Orion takes my other hand gently, reverently. Across the table, Jackson’s gaze burns into mine. I try not to think about the way his lips felt against mine in the elevator.
I fail.
Jackson sees me looking at him. The corner of his mouth curls up into a smirk. “Lily—”
“Shhhh,” I hiss. “We’re concentrating.”
“Sorry. It’s hard to think about summoning ghosts when all I can see is how beautiful you look in that dress.”
Orion sucks in a breath.
Something sizzles in the air that has nothing to do with the spirit world. Goose bumps rush up my arms, even though we have the heat on full blast.
“Lily…” Orion whispers.
Nope, I can’t do this now. Not when Brooks is about to crush my fingers. I tear my gaze from Jackson and settle on the photograph on the table in front of me.
“Spirit of Sid, the poisoned groom, we wish to speak to you,” I moan, focusing on the image. “Spirit of Sid, come to this place where a wrong was done to you, and reveal yourself to us.”
Becka taught me that you don’t need any special magical powers to talk to ghosts. Ghosts exist because theywantto talk. They’re usually people who loved being the center of attention in life, and want to hog the limelight in death, too.
