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  “I was always interested in design. My mom thought I should pursue a more practical career though.” She wrinkles her nose.

  The waitress reappears and sets down Romy’s beer.

  “Put it on my tab,” I tell her.

  “Thank you. I need to get drunk.” Romy picks up the beer and downs half of it.

  My eyebrows shoot up. “Oh.” This date is more interesting than I expected. I lift up my beer to toast her. “Cheers.”

  She grins and her face lights up with that big, bright smile as she taps her beer against mine.

  “What’s up?” I ask. “Bad day?”

  “You could say that. It’s a long, long story.”

  “We have all night.” Never mind my plan to knock back a drink and bolt.

  “Eh. I don’t want to think about it tonight.” She lifts her chin and straightens her shoulders. “I just want to have fun.”

  Well, she’s going to be disappointed in me if she’s looking for fun. I used to be the one to go to for a wild night of drinking, drugs, and partying. These days, my idea of fun is sanding woodwork or patching drywall. “Okay.”

  “They have karaoke here.”

  Oh hell no. “I’m not doing that.”

  “Boo. Well then, we can race turtles.”

  “I can’t believe that’s a thing.”

  “Oh, come on? How long have you lived in Chicago?”

  “My whole life,” I admit.

  “And you’ve never raced turtles?”

  “Nope.” It may be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of, but something makes me zip my lips. “I guess I missed out on that rite of passage.” I had different rites of passage in my life.

  “Then you really need to at least watch. Let’s go.”

  What the hell. Maybe I could use a little fun too. We carry our beers to the back of the bar where the race is being set up.

  “Don’t worry,” Romy says to me. “The turtles are well cared for. Believe me, if I thought they weren’t, I would be protesting to shut this down.”

  “Okay.” This is goofy.

  “I’ve been told they love the attention and they’re excited to race.”

  I give her side-eye, although I’m totally amused by her.

  The four turtles have names stuck on their shells—Leonardo, Donatello, Michelangelo, and Raphael. Of course.

  “Who’s your favorite?” Romy asks in my ear.

  “Donatello.”

  “That was quick.” She shoots me a smirk. “You’ve thought about this a lot?”

  “Hell yeah. When I was a kid, I always played Donatello. I liked having a big stick.”

  “Oh really?” Her smile turns naughty, and her eyes gleam.

  I bark out a surprised laugh. “Oh yeah.” I wink. “He’s the total package. Smart but badass kung fu skills.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “He’s gonna win.”

  “Want to bet?” Her eyes twinkle. “I think Raphael looks pretty speedy.”

  “Ha. Sure. Let’s bet. How about… when Donatello wins, I get a kiss.”

  What the hell am I doing?

  I think I’m… having fun.

  She laughs. “From me? Or from the turtle?”

  Another laugh slips out of me. I lean close enough to touch my nose to hers. “From you.”

  Our eyes meet with a jolt of electricity, hers dancing with laughter and… awareness. “You’re on!”

  The DJ plays some rousing music and then starts talking about each turtle as the crowds of people push forward. Romy and I are standing near the front, in a corner where we have a great view. I shift behind her because I can see over her head.

  “And they’re off!”

  A man lifts the plastic container off the turtles in the middle of the round track, and they start moving. Well, three of them do. Donatello doesn’t budge. I hope he’s alive. I stare at him.

  Yep, he’s alive. As the other turtles meander and waddle, stop and start, his little legs begin to move. Maybe he needs a little help… a little wizardry…

  Wait. What am I thinking? I don’t do that shit anymore. But for a kiss from Romy… “Go Donnie!” I shout, earning a mirthful look from Romy.

  As people cheer on their turtles, creating an unholy din in the bar, Donatello sprints. Well, he shuffles.

  “Look at him go!” Romy cries.

  I set my hands on her shoulders as we cheer and watch the turtles mosey onward. Raphael is left in Donatello’s, er, turtle dust. The animated atmosphere infects me as I cheer on my shelled reptile. Slow and steady wins the race, and in a few minutes he’s declared the champion of the night.

  “Woo-hoo!” Romy turns to me, laughing. “Donatello for the win!”

  “You know what that means…” I lean closer.

  Her eyelashes flutter. “I do.”

  For a few seconds, I just admire her… smooth cheeks, pretty lips in a sweet, enticing curve, the warm scent of vanilla and sugar rising from her skin. Then my eyelids lower and I lean in and brush my mouth over hers. Once. Twice… and again, this time our lips clinging in a longer, sultry kiss. Heat pulses through me.

  We draw apart. Our eyes meet in a protracted look laced with heat and… surprise.

  She blinks.

  I swallow. Well. “Another drink?” I say hoarsely.

  “Sure.”

  We return to our table and order another round of beers. “Okay, that was ridiculous.” I shake my head, having regained some equanimity. “But fun, I admit.”

  “See? It was!”

  When we have our drinks, Romy says, “So, Trace, what do you do for a living?” She gives me big blue eyes. “What’s your passion?”

  “I’m in the construction business.”

  “Hammering. Nailing. Screwing.”

  With a straight face, I say, “No, that’s my personal life.”

  “Ha ha. Good one!” She tips her beer to me again, and I join in her laughter.

  “I have done the hands-on work,” I say. “I worked for the family business in the summers when I was a teenager and in college.”

  “Apparently you built some muscles.” Her eyes move approvingly over my shoulders and chest.

  I flex one arm to show off my biceps. “Yep.” I lower my arm. “Now I’m in management. But I keep my skills sharp by renovating my own house. It’s a big old Victorian.”

  “Nice.” Her eyes gleam. “I love old houses.”

  “Me too. Grew up in one. Bought one myself.”

  “Awesome.”

  I pick up my beer. “I love building things and restoring things. Especially old houses. Our mission is to give people their dream home.”

  She nods. “That’s wonderful. Home is important.”

  “Yeah. It’s more than just shelter—it’s a sanctuary. A gathering place for family. A center for our lives, the place we come back to every day.” For a moment I lose my focus, memories of family and the home I lost crowding in.

  She gazes at me wordlessly. “Yes,” she says slowly. “That’s true.”

  “So.” I direct my attention back to her, shaking off sadness. “It’s nice to have a home that’s special to you.”

  She wrinkles her nose and nods. “I like that.”

  “You should see the old house we’re renovating near here,” I say. “It’s amazing.”

  “So you don’t just do new construction?”

  “Nope. I manage the renovation part of the business.”

  “What’s amazing about it?”

  “Well, it was built in 1898 by Lewis Granger. He’s a pretty well-known architect in Chicago.”

  She lifts her shoulders to indicate she hasn’t heard of him. That’s okay.

  “It has six bedrooms, two and a half baths. The front door has the original glass, and there’s a grand staircase with a window seat.” I watch her reaction. Lots of people zone out when I talk about stuff like this, but she’s hanging on my every word like a kid on monkey bars. “There’s a double parlor living room with mahogan
y pocket doors and hardwood floors with mahogany, birch, and maple inlays.”

  “Sounds gorgeous.”

  “Well, the wallpaper is hideous, the floors are a mess, and the kitchen’s a disaster. But yeah, it’s gorgeous. The coolest thing is the maid’s staircase.” I pause. “Rumor has it the house is haunted.”

  Her eyes widen and her pretty lips part. “No! Really?”

  “Yeah. The third floor has an old ballroom, the maid’s bedroom, another kitchen and bathroom, and a sunroom.”

  “Who haunts it?” she asks eagerly.

  I like that she’s into this and not just rolling her eyes. “Apparently, when the house was first built, the maid was having an affair with her employer, the man of the house. When the secret came out, she jumped down the well in the yard to her death.”

  “Ohhhh.” Her eyes are still wide and intent on me.

  “But since she didn’t live to tell the tale, who’s to say another family member didn’t push her?”

  “Right?”

  “Then she came back to haunt the family until they finally sold the house. Rumor is other owners have also seen the ghost of the maid.”

  “That’s so cool,” she breathes. “I’d love to see that house!”

  “Yeah?”

  “Oh yes!”

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  3

  Romy

  What the hell am I doing? My friends would say I’m insane to be leaving the bar with a guy I just met. My mom would be horrified! At first he seemed aloof, but when he smiles, it’s dazzling. When he laughs, it’s captivating. I want excitement in my life. This guy… for some reason he excites me. But I also feel I can trust him. I ignore my mom’s voice telling me not to rely on my instincts.

  And I’m dying to see the house.

  Trace leads the way to his vehicle parked on the street nearby, a shiny, new truck. “Do you have a car here?” he asks.

  “No. I walked. You’re okay to drive?” I may be acting impulsively, but I’m not stupid.

  “Oh yeah.”

  We buckle up, and he steers us through moonlit streets. “It’s not far,” he says. “Just off West Lawrence.”

  I shiver with excitement.

  I don’t even know why I sat with him in the bar. He was obviously waiting for someone who stood him up. I felt like doing something… unexpected. Unplanned. And I wanted some drinks, after what I learned today. A lot of drinks.

  It turned out fine though, because he’s… attractive. So attractive. Physically, yes… I did notice the broad shoulders, defined biceps, muscular chest, and flat abs in his fitted, long-sleeved navy tee. I noticed his square jaw beneath a layer of beard stubble, his strong wedge of a nose, his amazing green eyes. And I noticed how tall he was when he stood to greet me. But there’s something else about him that attracts me, drawing me to him like a drunken moth to a bright, burning star.

  Radiating energy, he has a presence that’s compelling. When he met my eyes across the room, I couldn’t stop my feet from crossing toward him, doing something completely out of character. Or maybe not…

  With his serious, unsmiling face, when I made him laugh, I felt like I was doing some kind of magic. When he talked about home, I felt like he needed a sanctuary, a safe place to hide from the world. But what does he need to hide from?

  Soon he pulls up in front of the house. It’s completely dark, of course. The wrought iron gate is locked, but Trace has a key and he lets us in. It’s a huge house, three stories, like he said, with all kinds of decorative detail above the front veranda, the second-floor balcony, and the top of the house. The three top windows have ornate, pointy window hoods. It’s creepy and fascinating.

  We climb the wooden steps to the veranda and cross to the front door, the glass etched with an amazing star shape. He opens it and we step inside.

  Trace flicks a switch, and a bare light bulb above us illuminates the space.

  “We have electricity,” he says. “Come on in.”

  The staircase is indeed grand, dark wood rising to the shadowy second floor with an amazing carved banister and a big square newel post.

  I lower my gaze to the wooden floor beneath my feet, admiring the pattern of different woods inlaid, although it’s scratched and worn. “This floor is beautiful.”

  He shows me around the main floor—a parlor, a dining room, a living room, all with lots of carved mahogany but atrocious flowered wallpaper, and another room that he tells me is going to have the wall removed to make the kitchen bigger.

  “Want to go upstairs?”

  “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 hi
m, 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.”