Must Love Ghosts (Banshee Creek Book 1) (10 page)

But he liked that. He got dressed, dried his hair and checked his appearance in the antique mirror. The bathroom was outdated, uncomfortable and most definitely unsafe, but it was a perfect reflection of Abby's personality. Take this mirror, it was pretty and shiny and completely impractical. She should have put in a medicine cabinet. That would have kept the pedestal sink clear. But instead, her sink was littered with bottles.

But, the mirror was really pretty.

Just like Abby.

He hung the towel on an ornate metal hook with a crystal thingamabob on the end, and opened the bathroom door. He walked down the hallway, past the guest bedroom where he'd stowed his duffle bag, and past Abby's room, where the bed was covered with wigs, makeup and clothes, and headed down the narrow staircase.

Abby was in the kitchen, cooking. She was dressed in a jade kimono-like thing with her hair tied back. She looked up when she heard him coming down the stairs and...

Blushed.

He walked up to the tiny breakfast bar and sat on an equally minuscule stool, hiding a smile.
 

He'd put that blush on her face. He'd tied her up and stripped her clothes off and fucked her senseless and now she couldn't quite look him in the eye.

It felt good.

"So," he drawled. "I guess you're hungry."

Another blush.

"Starving, actually," she said.

He looked down at her handiwork. It looked very fruity.

"Are you making salad?" he asked, trying to hide his disappointment. Several hours of ravishment had left his beloved with an irresistible craving for fruit. Not exactly flattering, was it?

Not to mention that the aforementioned ravishment had also left him feeling ravenous. And an apple and a couple of orange slices weren't going to do the trick, not by a long shot.

But he was relieved to see that the kitchen, although decorated in the same quirky vintage style as the rest of the house, seemed modern and functional. It had white cabinets and appliances and a grayish stone countertop. The stove was small, but he was sure he could cook a steak on it.

But he didn't think Abby had steaks in the house, or any kind of real food for that matter. Abby's peripatetic lifestyle didn't leave her much time for shopping for food and she subsisted on take-out from her waitressing jobs and those nasty granola bars that claimed to be healthy but were nothing but grainy candy bars. As far as he knew, she didn't cook at all, which explained why the kitchen was so neat and tidy.
 

Well, at least she had fruit. And she knew how to chop it.

She stared at him, confused. He pointed to the fruit and she laughed.

"No," she said, throwing the chopped fruit in a pitcher. "This is for
sangría
. I called the pizza place. They're still open and making deliveries."

Pizza. His stomach growled. Now
that
was more like it.

"What kind did you get?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes.

"With everything on it and extra garlic," she said. "Would I order any other kind of pizza for you, Mike Stone?"

He grinned. Happy that she'd remembered his favorite food.

A thought struck him.

"Maybe you shouldn't have asked for the extra garlic," he said.

That made her laugh.

"I think it's okay," she giggled. "As long as we both eat it."

The doorbell rang.

"That's Zach," Abby said, wiping her hands on a rag. "Wow, that was fast. He must have really hustled."

She went to open the door. Mike followed her, wondering whether he should clear the dining room table. He suspected that it would be too intrusive. They could, after all, eat at the breakfast bar.
 

"Zach!" He heard Abby exclaim. "I can't believe you're still up. Didn't you get out of the hospital practically yesterday? You should be home getting your beauty sleep."

Mike's gut clenched as the tall, dark-haired guy with the killer smile and Berklee School of Music shirt bent down to kiss Abby. True, he barely grazed her cheek, but Mike still wanted to punch him.

Hard.

Even if the guy had really just come out of the hospital.

"More like six months ago," the guy said, his arm still wrapped around Abby's waist. "And it's only a bit past midnight. The party is just getting started out there and it looks like I'm going to have a long night."

Mike glanced at the antique clock on Abby's mantelpiece. It was almost two in the morning. And he couldn't help but notice that their ersatz pizza delivery guy wasn't actually carrying any pizza.

"You know well my night owl ways." The delinquent delivery guy looked up, assessing Mike. "And you haven't introduced me to your friend."

Abby stepped back. "Sorry, this is Mike Stone. Mike, this is Zach Franco."

Zach stepped forward and offered his left hand. His right hand was held up in a sling. He had no bandages, but pretty nasty scars marred his wrist and elbow, the kind of scars that indicated surgery and metal plates and screws. And his movements were a bit jerky, with that telltale rhythm that hinted to long painful hours of physical therapy. Mike was pretty familiar with wounds, and he could tell that this one was a doozy. Zach wasn't carrying the pizza which implied that his fine motor kills were still weak.

But Zach's handshake was strong. And the way Zach was looking at him reminded him of his first boot camp, where the sergeant assessed the troops, trying to figure out who had what it took to be a good soldier.
 

Zach was trying to figure out whether he was good enough for Abby. Well, that explained the two-ack-emma pizza delivery. This was about inspecting the guy Abby had staying at her house.

And Mike respected that. It was good to see that Abby had people looking out for her.

"Thanks for coming," he said, shaking Zach's hand. "I suspect you guys have had a busy night, even if the party broke up early."

Zach shook his head.

"You have no idea," he said. "I've never seen anything like this. I think breaking up the party actually helped. People moved out to the street and visited all the shops. We are running out of mozzarella, and Patricia's bakery was mobbed and she's on her twelfth batch of apple cider donuts."

He turned to Abby, who looked bereft.

"Don't worry, I stole some for you. They're in the truck with the pizza."
 

Abby clapped her hands in glee.

"The Botánica was practically cleaned out, which is incredible because Yolanda had ordered three times her usual inventory."

"How did she know to do that?" Mike asked.

Abby rolled her eyes.

"The
orishas
told her, I bet."

"Hey, don't joke," Zach interjected. "She made so much money, she's going to expand her business. And I'm thinking of doing the same. Caine may have come up with something good."

"You're going to expand the pizzeria?" Abby asked, excited.

"Maybe," Zach shrugged. "Or at least do a complete remodel." He paused. "But, first, I'd have to get my dad to agree to it." He looked thoroughly daunted by this prospect.

"Anyway," he went on. "Your pizza's in my truck and it's getting cold." He looked down at his injured arm. 'Unfortunately, I'm going to need some help."

"I'll bring it in," Mike said, happy to be finished with a conversation about people he didn't know in a town he wasn't familiar with.
 

"Don't forget the donuts," Abby shouted, as he followed Zach out of the house.

They crossed the street and walked towards an old truck.

And Mike fell in love.

The love of his life appeared to be a light blue 1967 Chevrolet C10 short bed truck. It looked in mint condition and it had a Virginia Vintage Motors license plate holder.

"I don't suppose you're selling this baby," he said. "You know, to pay for the pizzeria remodel?"

Zach's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Have you been talking to my mom? She's been trying to get me to sell my truck all year." He patted the chassis lovingly. "But I'm not getting rid of my baby. Never."

"You got it restored here?" Mike asked, remembering the body shop he'd seen on Main Street.

"Yep. Rafe at Vintage Motors is a
gee-nius
. He's the car whisperer. And it's not just restored. It's fully customized. This baby has a brand new V-8 engine with turbo transmission and dual exhaust."

He opened the driver's door.

"Check that out."

The interior was spotless, with light gray leather seats and a gleaming wood steering wheel. This was one gorgeous vehicle.

"Does it ever break down?"

Zach snorted.

"Every day of the week and twice on Sundays." He looked at the truck fondly. "You're a high maintenance lady, aren't you, Bessie?"

Bessie? He'd named a vintage Chevy truck
Bessie
? What kind of name was that for a piece of automotive art?

"You know, Rafe has a sweet Jeep in his lot now," Zach continued, extracting a large pizza box from the passenger seat.

"Does he?" Mike said, unable to hide his interest.

"Yep, it's not old so it's not a restoration. It's more of a custom job. Call of Duty model with all the options and a pimped up interior."

"Sounds nice," Mike said, struggling to maintain a nonchalant tone to his voice.

"Yeah, well, I'm sure he'll sell it soon." Zach handed him the pizza. "Here you go. Oh, I almost forgot." He took out a six-pack of beer and a cellophane bag tied with a pink and orange ribbon. The tag on the bag read, "Banshee Creek Bakery."

"Here." He handed the beer and the bag to Mike. "Abby will kill you if you forget her donuts." He nodded at the six-pack. "Those are freebies. You don't strike me as a sangría type of guy."

"Thanks," he said with undisguised sincerity. He could really use a beer right about now.
 

"No problem." Zach walked to the driver's side and climbed in, rather clumsily.

"Um, are you sure you should be driving this thing?"
 

"Sure." He slammed the heavy metal door. "This thing practically drives itself."

He turned the key in the ignition. The engine grumbled but didn't turn over.
 

Zach slammed his hand on the steering wheel.
 

"Damn it, this is what I get for flirting with other cars." He turned the key again. "I didn't mean it, baby. Really, I didn't. I was just trying to convince Private Ryan here to buy Rafe's Jeep. I swear."
 

The engine finally started, and Zach patted the dashboard lovingly.

"Good girl," he crooned.

"Um," Mike cleared his throat. "I hate to interrupt you two, but how much do I owe you?"

"It's on Abby's tab," Zach said, releasing the parking brake. "You guys can pay it at the end of the month. Great to meet you."

Mike watched as Zach drove off. "You guys"? That was a weird choice of words. He and Abby weren't a "you guys."

But, as he walked back to Abby's colorful Victorian house, carrying pizza and cold beer, he had to admit one thing.

He wanted them to be.

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

A
BBY
LIGHTED
the candles and stepped back to admire her handiwork. The dining room was clean, which was no small feat, and she'd scrounged up a vintage tablecloth from the linen closet and pair of silver candleholders from the mantle. The plates were mismatched and she had mason jars instead of wineglasses, but, with the lights dimmed down and soft candlelight, her plain wood table and mismatched chairs looked almost romantic.

True, the tablecloth was embroidered with pastel-colored fairies and the candleholders were shaped like tentacles, but, hey, romance.

Maybe too much romance?

She bit her lip, suddenly uncertain. Wasn't this kind of fast? Then again—she glanced stealthily at the living room rug—that had been kind of fast too.
 

She was about to chicken out and put the tentacle candlesticks back in the cupboard when the front door opened. Mike was back. The intoxicating smell of Franco Pizza's Marinara Apocalypse special with extra garlic spread throughout the room and her stomach growled loudly.

So much for romance.

Mike laughed and set the pizza box on the table. She frowned at the six-pack he placed next to the container. That was Zach's handiwork. He had no faith on her ability to make sangría.

"Your place cleans up nice," he said, sitting down in front of a gold-edged porcelain plate with yellow roses. He fiddled with the pizza box, trying to open it.

"We try," Abby answered, joining him at the table. "So, did you try to buy Bessie?"

He jerked guiltily and dropped the cardboard lid.

"Don't feel bad," Abby said, laughing. "All the guys fall in love with Bessie, but she's a one-man truck."

"So I'm told." He smiled ruefully, opened the box, and reached over for her plate. "So that was your guitarist?"

"Yep," she said, accepting a warm slice of pizza smothered in toppings. "We hoped he'd be able to play again..."

Her voice trailed off and Mike looked at her, his blue eyes serious. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it quickly and focused intently on transferring an extremely gooey slice of pizza onto his plate.

Abby's heart lurched. She poured out the sangría into the mason jars. "But that doesn't seem to be in the cards."

Mike just looked at her, his eyes dark and serious, and she drank down her sangría, fighting back tears. Crap, she should have added more brandy.

Like maybe the whole damn bottle.

"But you're in a new band, now, right?" he said, opening a beer bottle.
 

"It's not about me." She wiped a tear away. "I'm going to be okay. I just feel so horrible for him. I don't know what I would do if I couldn't sing." She looked down at her pizza glumly.
 

"He's going to be fine." Mike's voice was gentle. "Now, eat your pizza."

"You don't even know him," she said mulishly. But she picked up a fully loaded slice.

"I know guys like him." He took a sip of beer. "I know a lot of guys like him. Way too many."