Page 11 of The Ghost and the Graveyard (Knight Games 1)
He ignored my comment but turned the full weight of his attention on me. "Do you go by Grateful, or something shorter?"
"Yes, Grateful. You can't really shorten Grateful. Unless I went by a single letter like G, and I'm not a music mogul or one of the Men in Black, so Grateful it is." I led the way into the dining room, where I placed the vase at the center of the table. "And you? Is Rick short for Richard?" Or maybe, wanton sex god?
"Enrique. My parents were Spanish. But call me Rick."
Our eyes met. An awkward pause ensued while we soaked each other in. A magnetic field had formed between us, coaxing me toward him. I refrained, but barely. Delicious warmth unfolded deep within me. I was surprised the drapes didn't melt down the walls from the heat between us and I couldn't stop my mind from replaying the shower scene I'd imagined driving in. Damn! What was wrong with me? I sucked my bottom lip between my teeth and turned away so that he wouldn't see my face redden once again.
"It smells good in here. Were you cooking?" he asked, breaking the tension.
"Yes, actually. I just sat down to eat."
"Oh, I've interrupted your dinner. Please, continue."
"Have you had something? I could whip up a plate for you?" I had no idea what I would do if he said yes. I couldn't actually cook, and I wasn't sure my dad had left sandwich fixings.
"I've eaten, thank you. But, please..." He pointed toward the kitchen.
"Okay. But don't feel like you have to leave." I retrieved my plate from the microwave and took a seat at the dining room table across from him.
"Can I pour you a glass of wine?" I asked.
"Yes. What do you have there?"
"Shiraz-" I froze as I looked at the bottle in front of me. A circle of red still stained the bottom of my glass, but next to it was not the Shiraz I'd opened. Instead, the Pinot gris faced me, sealed and dripping with condensation. My scalp prickled.
"What's wrong? You're as white as a ghost." Rick moved to my side.
"Th-this is not the wine I was drinking. Look." I showed him the top of the bottle. "It's sealed. I put this bottle away in the cellar."
Surely Rick would think I was crazy, but I was too majorly creeped out to maintain the I'm-perfectly-normal facade.
He gingerly took the bottle from my hands, as if the dark green glass might sprout legs at any moment. Tilting his face toward the ceiling, he squinted and his lips pressed into a flat line. "I was hoping this wouldn't start so soon."
"What wouldn't start?"
Rick leaned forward and whispered into my ear. "I don't want to alarm you, but I think this house is haunted."
I waited all of three seconds to break into laughter. "Oh, come on. Haunted?"
The corner of his mouth lifted. "You don't believe the house could be haunted?"
"No. Not really. I mean, the wine is weird, but there has to be a rational explanation."
"There is only one way to know the truth." His face was inches from mine now, and I caught him glancing down the v-neck of my T-shirt.
"Blonde paradox," I whispered under my breath.
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, I just asked what-what is the way to know the truth?"
He held up the bottle and focused his dark eyes on me as if it was ninety degrees and I was a tall glass of ice water. I wriggled in my chair from the intensity. Pressing one hand to his chest, he said, "We must drink this ghostly wine late into the night, and I must stay with you to protect you from any unholy visitors."
I took one look at his exaggerated theatrics and said, "I'll get a corkscrew." Hell, I wasn't doing anything anyway. I walked into the kitchen to grab one off the counter and gasped. My bottle of Shiraz was corked, next to the refrigerator. What the hell was going on?
"You know," Rick called from the dining room, "Pinot gris is the better choice with salmon. Shiraz is too heavy of a red for fish."
I may be blonde, but I am not stupid. The pieces snapped together. Rick must have somehow changed the bottles. Maybe this was one big pick-up line: Hey baby, your house is haunted. Can I spend the night? Of course, that was it.
