“You were supposed to be at the house last night,” the young man said. “I waited up.”
“I found something better to do,” Tucker replied, rolling his eyes and keeping the flutter to himself. “I’m sorry. Nobody told me there would be a ghost at the house waiting for me.”
The ghost did not look appeased. “You need to come with me as soon as—”
“Mm… Tucker?” Dakota stretched, her tank top coming up under her breasts and her frilly white drawers dropping right below her neatly trimmed pubic hair. Tucker had been with women—big, small, short, tall, sophisticated, and plain country girls—and he never seemed to get over how the slightest changes in grooming or shopping or a perfume or a hair product could make such a difference from one woman to the next. He didn’t actually have a preference—not anymore—but he sure did have an appreciation for what Dakota did, personally and to herself.
“Hey, hon,” he said softly. “You go ahead and sleep. I’ve got some stuff to take care of at the house this morning.” He bent over and kissed her cheek. “I’m so glad you got that whole career thing sorted out,” he said, stroking her lower lip with his thumb. “You know where I’ll be if you ever want to talk again.”
He saw the familiar emotions pass over her heart-shaped, animated face. Disappointment at first, because he wasn’t going to stay, and for whatever reason, he’d helped this person feel better the night before. Then there was the “Oh my God, what have I done?” recognition—very often, the person he was with was as much a stranger to one-night stands as they were to Tucker himself.
And finally—oh, there it was—relief.
Yes, definitely relief.
She realized that she didn’t know Tucker, didn’t know him at all, and he was leaving her, but he was doing it respectfully, and he was letting her know any future contact would be fine.
But he wasn’t going to be in her bed anymore.
Then Dakota did him one better. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes growing a little sad again. “You really did help me figure some stuff out.”
Tucker smiled slightly. “That’s what I’m here for, darlin’. Can I use your shower?”
NOT-DAMIEN FOLLOWED Tucker into the shower, and Tucker shook his head. It was like this ghost or whatever hadn’t learned the rules of being a ghost yet.
“Hey, do you mind?” he muttered, shedding his boxer shorts quickly and jumping into the water before it had completely heated. California had been in a drought for years—every drop counted.
“I don’t mind at all,” the ghost said, appearing right in front of him as the cold water pounded his neck.
Tucker choked back a yelp. “Man, get out of the goddamned shower or I’m calling the state and donating the house!”
The ghost gave Tucker’s body what was supposed to be a contemptuous look, but somewhere between Tucker’s face and his knees, it paused and grew a little heated. With an effort, not-Damien met Tucker’s eyes. “I am above lust,” he said with the dignity of a desperate lie.
“I don’t care if you lust after me,” Tucker lied back. His attraction to this not-Damien creature was super irritating when he was naked in the shower. He grabbed some flowered body wash from the shelf and sniffed. Not bad—women did know how to smell. He dumped some on a sponge and continued, “I’m not afraid of finding a man in my shower. I’m pissed off. My entire life is a supernatural sexual violation. But I’d rather not have one looking me in the face while I rinse my cracks!”
Not-Damien’s mouth opened slowly while Tucker sponged his pits. “I am not a violation! I am a guide!”
Tucker soaped up his member, which—probably befitting his karmic mission or whatever—was of a gratifying size. “Guide this,” he said crudely. “If you’re not out of here by the time I soap my hair, whatever you want to use me for, I’m not doing it.”
Not-Damien scowled. “I’ll be waiting outside the bathroom,” he muttered.
“I’m not going to try to escape my fate,” Tucker promised bitterly. “Believe me, I’ve learned the hard way. Whoever is in charge doesn’t like us to have too goddamned much free will.”
The ghost’s scowl softened. “What happened to you?” he asked, looking like a wounded choirboy. “Your aunt said you were such a sweet boy.”
“None of your business. And quite frankly, she never mentioned you.” Dammit. He looked so much like Damie, the wound opened again, fresh and bloody and bright. “Just go.”
There was a faint breeze, carrying with it the odor of new sneakers and indigo dye—and the faintest scent of citrus and lavender—and Tucker was alone.
But not for long.
Not-Damien was not actually waiting for him outside the bathroom, as Tucker feared. Tucker had a chance to wash, dry, and even shave using the kit from the suitcase he’d left in the kitchen.
Dakota slept on through it—probably pretending, but Tucker didn’t mind. Sometimes when you woke up with a stranger, faking sleep was just courtesy.
Or that’s what he thought until he walked back to the kitchen to grab his luggage and make his exit out the front door.
She was awake, barely, yawning through coffee and blinking through the morning-after mess of her hair. She’d kept the tank top on and put on cutoffs this time, and she still looked sort of delicious and sexy. Tucker had a moment to regret that he wasn’t a real person to her, because if he’d had a life of his own, he really would have chosen someone exactly like Dakota Fisher.
“Heya, darlin’,” he said, kissing her cheek. “I thought you’d sleep in.”
“I really could have,” she mumbled. “Then I remembered—I live down three miles of dirt road, Tucker, and it’s already eighty-five degrees outside. It would be really frickin’ rude of me to let you walk that hauling your two suitcases.”
Tucker hadn’t thought of that, and the kindness made him blush.
“Thank you,” he said in a small voice. “That’s really nice of you.”
He had a cup of coffee with her, and then she grabbed her keys and the smaller suitcase. She went first, bumping her way across the porch and down the steps of her little house, and he followed. Not-Damien was standing outside the door.
He frowned at Dakota and then turned his glare to Tucker as Tucker maneuvered his big old suitcase over the threshold.
“I thought you said—”
Oh my God. “It’s over ten miles away, asshole,” Tucker hissed. “I’ll meet you there!”
The self-recriminatory look on not-Damien’s face was almost worth the aggravation of knowing the dickweed would be waiting for Tucker once he reached his destination.
“Sorry,” the ghost said and disappeared, leaving Tucker feeling the faintest bit sorry for being such an ass. But not enough to worry about it.
“OH MY God, Tucker, are you sure?”
Tucker looked at Daisy Place and swallowed. “Yeah,” he said weakly. “I’m hunky dory.”
Peeling mint-green paint adorned the window and door frames, but the rest of the house was a collection of rotting shingled siding and rusty tin roofs. Was it Tucker’s imagination or did the entire house slant at odd angles so that the west wing dipped down and the east wing tilted up, and the middle seemed to loom bigger and smaller with each of Tucker’s deep, steadying breaths?