“Yes. Maybe. But you have to hold my hand.”
His lips twitch. “I can do that.”
The stairs are wide enough for us to climb together, my hand firmly clasped in his. Trace turns on another light, which helps, but the big chandelier is dusty. We explore the bedrooms and outdated bathrooms, then pause at the narrower stairs to the third floor. I gaze up hesitantly. Goose bumps rise on my skin, and I release Trace’s hand to rub my upper arms.
“Cold?” he asks.
“No.” It’s a warm June evening after a hot day, and this house is definitely not air-conditioned. “I’m…”
“Scared.”
I shake my head. “No. I just feel… something.”
My weird comment doesn’t seem to faze Trace. “I know.” He nods. “Come on.”
He takes my hand again, and we climb to the third floor. We peer into the small room that was the maid’s bedroom… the maid who met her unfortunate end. “I wonder if she really loved him,” I murmur. “If she jumped because her heart was broken.”
Trace doesn’t ask who I’m talking about.
There’s a tiny kitchen and bathroom and then… the ballroom.
I picture glittering chandeliers and potted palms. I picture men in tuxedos and women in long dresses, dancing across the hardwood floor and drinking champagne. In the late 1800s, the ball gowns would have been bustled and draped and decorated with silk flowers, the men in tailcoats and top hats. I can almost hear the waltz playing as I walk to the middle of the room and turn in a circle.
Trace follows me slowly, taking my hand and setting his other hand on my waist, as if he knows I’m thinking about dancing. Heat pulses between us. We start to move together in a waltz step I learned years ago in my musical theater days, one, two, three, one, two, three. Our steps mesh and lengthen into smooth strides as we glide around the room. My eyes fasten on his.
I breathe in his scent—rich, sexy, and sensual. His shoulder is strong beneath my hand, his long legs graceful. I imagine my skirts swirling around my ankles. The corners of his mouth lift into a half smile, and again, I feel like he knows what I’m thinking.
“How many people do you think have danced here?” I murmur.
“I think lots of people.”
“Are you going to keep this as a ballroom?”
“No.” He shakes his head, his expression regretful. “Nobody uses a ballroom anymore.”
“I guess that’s true. It’s a shame.”
We come to a stop, still gazing into each other’s eyes. I’m drawn to him, pulled in by his eyes as his lids lower and his gaze drops to my mouth. My lips part, my breath leaving me, and my eyes drift closed too as our mouths move nearer. I feel his breath whisper over my cheek, and I rise onto my toes as he bends his head. I crave another touch of his mouth on mine.
“You’re beautiful, Romy.”
“Th-thank you.”
And then his lips touch mine—the softest press, once, twice, then again, his mouth opening on mine. I sink into it, opening to him, his tongue gliding against mine. He tastes of bitter hops, delicious adventure, and sweet desire. My mouth is hungry for him.
He releases my hand, and I immediately twine my arms around his neck and press into him. He cups my face so gently, tilting my head slightly, and kisses me again, warm and deep and exciting. My belly flips, heat gathering low inside me.
This kiss… it’s extraordinary. I’m melting into him, my bones softening, my entire body yearning to be touched by him. His hands drift down the sides of my neck, over my shoulders, brushing over my breasts as he wraps his arms around me and pulls me closer still. His body is big, hot, vibrating, and I love being crushed against him.
Our kisses go on and on until finally he draws back and we stare at each other. My heart is thumping, and I’m breathless.
“Wow,” he murmurs.
“Yeah.” I swallow thickly. “Wow.”
Then behind him something moves… a smoky, swirling shape. My eyes pop wide, and seeing that, Trace looks over his shoulder. I blink, and the wispy form disappears.
Trace turns back to me. “Did you see something?”
I slowly shake my head. “I thought I did, but I think I had something in my eye.”
He chuckles and kisses my forehead. “Let’s go.”
We clamber down the two flights of stairs to the main floor. Did I really just see that? Did he? I wouldn’t say that spirits don’t exist, but I don’t believe in ghosts that you can actually see. It had to be my imagination, all stirred up from dancing in the old ballroom.
In the dining room, I smooth my hand over the built-in mahogany sideboard. “You’re going to keep some of this original stuff, aren’t you?”
“As much as we can, yeah.”
“Good.”
Trace locks up, and we return to his truck. The breeze rustles the tender new leaves of the trees lining the street and cools the heat in my cheeks.
“Thank you for bringing me here. That was amazing.”
“How about ice cream?” Trace says when we’re buckled in.
I grin. “I never say no to ice cream.”
He drives to my favorite ice cream place on West Montrose, Happy Cones. It’s late, but they’re still open. In fact, there’s even a short lineup out the doors of the tiny shop.
We fall into place behind what seems to be a group of teenagers all together.
“I love this place,” I tell him as we wait our turn.
“Me too.”
“What are you going to have?”
“The Cookie Monster.”
“Ohhh, that’s so good.” I nibble my bottom lip. “I think I’ll have the Big Little Chocolate Cone.”
The group in front of us is loud, their conversation being carried out at a level approaching yelling, their laughter raucous. I meet Trace’s eyes, and we both make faces.
“You like chocolate?” he asks.
“I love chocolate.”
Two of the boys in front of us start jostling each other. “You dumb fucker,” one of them says.
“Shut the fuck up, fuckface.”
Trace’s face tightens. He glances around.
It’s late, so there aren’t any children waiting in line, but still, their loud swearing is kind of douchey.
Then one of the guys gets shoved right into me. I stumble back, almost stepping on the person behind me.
“Hey!” I cry.
Without a second’s pause, Trace grabs the guy by his shirt and yanks him away from me. “Dude,” he clips out. “Watch out.” He holds on to him as the kid regains his balance, then tries to pull away from him. His friends make concerned noises. Trace looks at me. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just startled.”
“You could have hurt her,” Trace continues in a low, authoritative voice, his face grim. “Apologize.”
“Sorry,” the kid mumbles.
“You guys are out of line,” Trace says to them all, releasing the boy. “Settle down. You wanna wrestle, go to the park over there.” He jerks his head.
The kids all shuffle back into line, muttering but chastened.
“You sure you’re okay?” Trace asks me quietly.