Double Dating with the Dead by Karen Kelley (best fiction novels to read .txt) 📗

Okay, salad it is, she thought as she brought the bag of greens to the counter. Even in the dim light, she was able to find a bowl, but for the life of her she couldn’t tear open the plastic bag. When she was just about to give up and use her teeth, Trent took the bag from her.

“Here, let me.”

His hand against hers was warm, sending tingles up and down her arms.

“Thanks,” she muttered and grabbed the oven mittens out of the drawer before hurrying to the stove and opening the door.

More heat. As if she needed any.

She set the fettuccini on a hot pad in the middle of the small kitchen table and removed the lid. The wonderful aroma of the creamy sauce drifted upward. Trent had followed with the salad, and they both inhaled at the same time.

Trent cleared his throat. “It smells wonderful.”

“Mom makes the best fettuccini. She takes it right from the box, dumps it into a bowl and heats it in the oven.” A gourmet cook her mother wasn’t.

He shrugged. “It still smells good.”

“I’m pretty sure that after thirty-two years of marriage my father has guessed Mom can’t cook diddlysquat, but he always praises her culinary skills.” She smiled. That was what she wanted someday—a marriage just like her parents’.

It took her a few seconds to realize they’d just carried on a civil conversation. Apparently, he realized it, too, because he quickly took a seat. She pulled out the chair across from him.

The silence that followed was more than a little uncomfortable. Finally, Trent laid his fork down.

“Since we’re going to be together for a couple of weeks, I think we should call a truce.”

In the candlelight, he seemed…dangerous. Dark and sexy. She quickly clamped her knees together. She didn’t want to call a truce. He was too tempting as it was. But she didn’t want him to think she was afraid, either.

She cocked an eyebrow. “A truce in the middle of a war? You’re trying to ruin my career, and I’m trying to ruin yours. I’m not sure a truce would work.”

“I’m not trying to ruin—”

“What? You’re going to sit there and tell me you’re not trying to defame my reputation and ruin my career?”

“You’re the one who offered up this stupid challenge.”

The nerve! “After you called me…let’s see if I can remember your exact words: delusional, you said I have a vivid imagination and my column is amusing!”

“There were better ways to get even than staying here for two weeks. I mean, you do have a vivid imagination. Surely you could’ve come up with something better than this.” He slammed his hand on the table.

She wondered briefly if her mother might have packed some arsenic. “I didn’t issue the challenge,” she said between gritted teeth. “My mother did. You started it, and she thought she was helping me.”

The air seemed to have suddenly left his sails. “Oh.” He grabbed up his fork and stabbed at the pasta on his plate. His mouth was set in a grim line. Finally, he looked up. “I’m sorry about the television interview. I admit that I shouldn’t have said what I did on TV.”

She relaxed against the back of her chair. He was admitting he was wrong? That was something she’d never expected.

“At least, not without proof,” he continued.

She sat forward. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” Damn it, you couldn’t admit you were wrong in one breath, then practically steal back the apology in the next.

“It means that I’m not sure if you’re out to bilk the public or if you really do believe in ghosts. Only time will tell.”

“And if it’s the latter, then I guess you’ll say I’m delusional.” She crossed her arms in front of her and once again leaned back, glaring in the face of his ignorance. She would not lose her temper and throw her plate of food at him.

Deep breaths. Relax.

“Who were you talking to before I came into the kitchen?” he asked without missing a beat.

She opened her mouth, then snapped it closed. Hell, she’d already admitted to talking to ghosts. She jutted out her chin and squared her shoulders. “I was speaking with Wesley and Dixie.” She picked up her glass of wine and took a dainty sip. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Your ghosts.”

“They’re not mine.”

“You don’t see me talking to…the air. So that would make them yours.”

“Dixie was the one who pinched you,” she blurted out, then promptly realized her mistake. If he didn’t believe in ghosts, then he certainly wouldn’t believe Dixie had been the one to pinch him.

A slow grin curved his lips. She should’ve known what he would think. Was that a twinkle in his eyes? She was surprised he could even smile without cracking his face.

Her eyes narrowed. This time her psychic abilities were kicking in big-time. She had a suddenly strong premonition that he was going to say something she probably wouldn’t like.

As if he would say something she did like. He hadn’t since he’d arrived. Why the hell would he start now?

Even so, she braced herself for what he was about to say. She refused to let him get the better of her.

Chapter 4

“Dixie pinched me?” Trent raised a mocking eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Selena countered, daring him to tell her one more time that ghosts did not exist. She could almost see the wheels turning inside his head.

He picked up his wineglass and took a drink, then carefully set it down. “So tell me about these ghosts of yours,” he said, meeting her gaze without flinching.

It took her a second to realize he was actually asking her about Dixie and Wesley. Then another to realize he was humoring her.

Keep the crazy lady happy so she doesn’t slit my throat while I’m sleeping.

She knew exactly what he was thinking. “They’re not my ghosts. They don’t belong to anyone.” She finished her fettuccini and carried her plate to the sink.

“Tell me about them anyway,” he said.

She didn’t