She grinned and took another bite of the licorice. “Seventeen year old you would have got shut down if he was going where you’re going.”
“Seventeen year old me would have had a butt full of buckshot. It turns out I’m not as sly as I thought I was. I didn’t actually tell anyone I was doing this tonight—I’m not sure how they pieced it together. I probably wasn’t that sly back then either.” She gave him the last piece of the licorice but then got her fingers out of the way before he could bite them like he’d intended. “So, you think the Miller’s place would look good painted egg-shell, huh?” He’d always planned on painting it whatever she bet on—for obvious reasons.
“No. I think the Matthews’ place would.” She turned to face him, kneeling between his legs. She tipped forward and kissed him lightly. “I didn’t bring pajamas to the sleepover.”
“Me neither. But at least we’ve got licorice.” He wrapped his arms around her. This felt as good as that night ten years ago hadn’t. He slid his hand up along her back, just under that red shirt of hers. “I like this shirt. It’s so frilly…and you.”
“Me?”
He shrugged. “Sexy and sweet all rolled together.”
Her smile was huge, and her next kiss was part lunge and knocked his head against the wall, but he didn’t mind.
When she pulled back and looked over her shoulder at the licorice, he shook her lightly. “Hey, save some for later. We’ll be rationing by morning at that rate.”
“Only if we stay up all night eating them.” She lifted up one of the big down pillows he’d grabbed off his bed. “I’m glad you brought pillows.”
“You can’t have a sleepover without a pillow fight.” They might, however, manage a sleepover without sleeping. He nodded down at the sleeping bag next to them. “These sleeping bags zip together…,” he pulled her closer to kiss her again, “…into one large bag.”
She smiled against his lips. “That’s pretty sly,” she murmured into their next kiss.
“You like that, huh?”
In answer, she kissed him much longer while cradling his face in her hands. Yep, he might be able to figure out her body language just fine. In a year, they might be struggling with her egomania instead of a low self-esteem if everything went according to his plans.
Just in case she couldn’t tell, he said, “I love kissing you.”
“Mm hm. You’re not doing the kissing booth thing this year,” she said, kissing him again.
“No, I’m not.” He liked how possessive she sounded. “I only did it last year because your mom said you’d be back in town by then, but you came back the week after.”
“You were going to make me pay to kiss you?”
“Yes, but now they’re all free.” He kissed her. “Prices slashed.” He kissed her again. “All inventory must go.”
She was laughing too much to kiss him, and she ducked her face down into his shoulder.
He tangled his fingers in her hair, and it felt so good that he actually sighed. He’d touched her hair when they were kids all the time. It had seemed so fascinating that it’d curl all on its own and also that it was so soft. That hadn’t changed.
“You know this might be the first bet that I’m glad I lost,” he said.
Cory lifted her head and looked straight into his eyes. “Yeah, but in the future, all bets are off. Between us. No more.”
She was probably right. This bet had gone horribly wrong on them. Both times. Well, this time it might not have been quite as bad. It was turning around. Twisting, he laid her on her back on the open sleeping bag as he stretched out beside her. Cory was worth waiting two decades for. Maybe they were both too stubborn and too hurt to meet in the middle. Maybe they needed a good fake haunting.
He traced his finger down along her jawline, and she stared into his eyes the whole time. For the first time in a decade, he could swear she trusted him.
“Do you like your new house?” he asked.
He thought she blushed. It was hard to tell in the dim light. “Are you sure?” she whispered. She was still meeting his gaze. He pushed curls back from her temple and rubbed the back of his fingers down her cheek. He’d never get tired of touching her—not in another two decades—not in a lifetime.
“Duck, I’ve been sure since we were five. I’ve been waiting for you to figure it out.”
She glanced at the walls. “I don’t know…maybe I’ll paint the whole thing pink.”
“I bet you won’t,” he said, grinning, and tipping forward to brush his mouth against hers.
“No more bets.” She was still smiling when she said it and when she licked her lips, he followed seventeen year old Clay’s instinct to lean forward and lick her lips too.
He pulled back half an inch to say, “I bet we can chase the rest of the ghosts from this place tonight.” On the off chance any pseudo-ghosts were still around, they should dim the lantern because there wasn’t a single set of drapes on any of these windows. He couldn’t quite figure out how they’d done the thing with the doorknob, but her dad was going to have to deal with that. Clay planned on having his hands full for the next few days—literally and figuratively.
She smiled and looped her arms around his neck, tugging him towards her. “I bet you’re right.”
Not a day goes by that I don’t pity my husband. I wouldn’t trade places with him for the world. He has to deal with a crazy wife. I can only assume she makes up for what she puts him through in other ways. You can all assume that. I know I do. And, just so you know, I don’t clean. Thanks, honey, for everything.
Thank you, Twitter, for giving me beautiful ways to procrastinate and being an awesome resource for actual, genuine, freaky research. Only on Twitter could you find an expert in the occult at two a.m. to explain the use of blood in ceremonies and the difference between pentagrams and pentacles. Well, maybe in Vegas and New Orleans too, but the point is: Twitter rocks. Special shout-outs to (by username): AbbyMumford, AmandaStretch, AmberArgyle, AmeDyckman, AndyBrokaw, Bethyo, ElisaNuckle, HollyWillNot, Kathy_Collins, LeftyWritey, Meleye, Rcowsert, RidingNWriting, ScatteringAshes, ShelliStevens, Silent_Pages, and StaceyMay. I’ll catch the rest of Twitter in the next book. Just kidding.
I have awesome betas, but a few would read my grocery list if I begged. Thanks, Jaime, Sarah, Jay, Heidi, and Mom.
Jenn and Andy, thanks for making editing fun.
Cerridwyn publishing, this has been an amazing experience. Thank you.
My agent lets me get away with murder—if your definition of murder is writing long rambling emails that focus on odd, prime numbers and have a screechy panicked tone. Thank you, Sarah Yake, for helping me navigate the publishing world with what remains of my sanity and for actually reading those emails.
Finally, thank you to all those people who make Halloween awesome. The haunts, the pumpkin patches, and the costumes—all of it—thank you. Thank you especially to those who leave the light on and answer the door. No tricks…you’re a treat.
Wendy Sparrow lives in the Pacific Northwest with two quirky kids and an amazing husband. She’s an autism and obsessive compulsive disorder advocate and was featured in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Raising Kids on the Spectrum. Her love of telling stories was much less appreciated at a young age—which is why she’s heard the “Boy Who Cried Wolf” so many times she could have written the screenplay at age five. She believes in the Oxford comma, the pursuit of cupcakes, and that every story deserves a happily-ever-after. Most days she can be found on Twitter (@WendySparrow) where she’ll talk to anyone who talks back and occasionally just to herself.
For more information, please visit her website, http://wendysparrow.com
Look for these titles by Wendy Sparrow
From Cerridwyn Publishing:
Now Available:
The Teacher’s Vet
Coming Soon:
A Little Moon Madness (Mid October 2013)
Your Love Life Back From The Dead
How To Bring Your Love Life Back From The Dead Page 16
