Addictive Paranormal Reads Halloween Box Set

by Nana Malone

  “Don’t worry about it, how could you know?” Her smile trembled a bit as she handed him a menu for a nearby Chinese restaurant. “Anyway, quit stalling. Pick something so I can order and you can start talking.”

  That nervous agitation stirred in his gut again, but he sat opposite her and did as requested. While she placed the order, he took out his computer and set the critiqued hardcopy of her assignment on the coffee table between them. Once she hung up the phone, though, she ignored the marked-up paper and wasted no time opening the inquisition.

  “There’s something you said after the accident that struck me as odd.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I forgot how hard the ground is.”

  His muscles tensed. That was one of those more things he hadn’t wrapped his mind around yet. “I used to play football in high school, that’s all.” Not the truth, but also not a lie.

  “What position?”

  “Wide receiver.”

  “And in college?”

  He shrugged. “I enjoyed playing, but I wasn’t passionate enough about the game.”

  Her eyes widened as if his words horrified her. “Whatever you do, don’t tell my dad that.”

  “I take it he’s a big fan?”

  She laughed. “I saw you looking at the pictures, don’t you recognize him?”

  Ryan shifted his gaze back to the fireplace mantel.

  “Johnny Whitman,” she supplied.

  “Record holding NFL linebacker,” he added as the name registered. How’d he miss that? The answer wasn’t hard. He’d been focused on her, not her father. “Didn’t he use to play with Ted Holt?”

  To this day, even though Holt had only played three seasons, sports announcers mentioned his name whenever they talked about great quarterbacks.

  “Through college and their first year in the NFL,” Ali confirmed. “They’re still friends, too, even though Ted and Aunt Liz divorced.”

  “Professor Fielding was married to Ted Holt?”

  “Years ago. She divorced him right after the injury that ended his career.”

  Interesting information about the professor, and yet, after the past couple days, he couldn’t say he was too surprised. “Why do you call her ‘aunt,’ by the way? She didn’t come across all too family-like today.”

  “Like I said, she and my mom have been friends since college, though sometimes I wonder how that happened. My mom is fun, and bubbly, and nice, and Liz can be a real…”

  “Bitch?” he supplied.

  “I was going to say witch.” She tilted her head a bit, as if considering. “Yeah. She has this knack for putting people down with that piercing stare, and a smile that makes them think she’s completely right and they end up apologizing to her. Sometimes, I swear she weaves a magic spell or something. Unfortunately for me, or maybe fortunately, I’ve seen her do it enough times to my mom to recognize her in action.”

  “So, today was just a day-in-the-life?” he asked, trying not to think about the two instances in Professor Fielding’s presence he’d felt so odd. Magic spell was pushing it, but something had definitely been off.

  “Not quite. I mean, I did violate her no-talking rule,” Ali conceded. “But the other part was a little overboard even for Liz. I got the feeling she wasn’t happy about the two of us being critique partners, and right now, you know more about that than I do.”

  Her green gaze became as piercing as Liz’s blue one.

  Full circle, time to talk...but how much should he tell?

  * * * * *

  Chapter 6

  The musical chime of the doorbell stalled Ryan’s response, and for the first time, Ali was not pleased with The Wok’s speedy service. She pointed at Ryan while pushing to her feet. “You have not been saved by the bell. I’ll be right back.”

  A few minutes later, they each had a plate of steaming Chinese take-out in hand and drinks nearby on the coffee table. He twirled some noodles on his fork while she lifted a bite with her chopsticks. She didn’t push the issue as they ate, even though she wondered why he was so reluctant to explain something so simple.

  They talked about college, and she discovered he planned to stick to fiction writing with his English degree, while she hoped to enter the world of broadcast journalism. They were almost finished before the subject returned to their final year of classes, giving her the perfect opportunity to steer the conversation. All it took was one eyebrow lift from her for him to guess her question.

  “Professor Fielding came into the coffee shop after you left yesterday,” he replied. “When she asked what we’d been talking about, I couldn’t actually tell her the truth, so I said the first thing I could think of.”

  “Oh, so it was okay for me to think you’re crazy, but not her?” she teased.

  “She’s my professor,” he reasoned, his smile a bit sheepish. “Half of why I transferred from Boston State was to be able to take her class.”

  “Whatever.”

  His grin faded when he raised his gaze to hers. “For the record, I don’t want you thinking I’m crazy, either.”

  Swallowing her last bite when her heart leapt into her throat took some effort. After wiping her mouth, she broke eye contact and set her plate aside. “I don’t think you’re crazy, Ryan. Not anymore, anyway.” Her laugh held a self-conscious note while she gathered the remnants of their dinner. “The funny thing is, yesterday morning, I planned to ask if you had a critique partner.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  He followed her into the kitchen and added more leftovers to the fridge. “But you didn’t ask.”

  “Can you blame me? You started talking about dreams and evil dark clouds. I—”

  “I never said evil,” he protested.

  “Close enough.” With everything put away, she washed her hands and reached for a towel. “Anyway, it’s not that big a deal. Unless you’re a sucky writer; then I’m screwed.”

  “I could say the same.”

  “Watch it—you already critiqued mine. Besides, you used me to save your ass, so you get what you get.”

  He laughed on his return to the living room. “Fine. We’ll completely overlook the fact that you already admitted you were going to ask me first. What’s your email so I can send you my assignment?”

  After rattling off the address, she added, “I’ve got a ton to get done tonight, and coffee is about the only thing that’s going to help. You want some?”

  “Do you want me to go?”

  His hesitant question made Ali roll her eyes in the privacy of the kitchen. “I asked if you wanted coffee, Ryan, what do you think?”

  After a moment of silence, he called back, “I think I’ll take a cup. Thanks.”

  She smiled and filled the pot to the top. While the coffee brewed, she readied a tray with mugs, sugar, cream, and a bottle of Bailey’s.

  “I liked your story, by the way.”

  “Really?” She grabbed her laptop from the bench by the door and set it on the couch. Her gaze strayed to the paper sitting in the middle of the glass-topped table. “That’s not what all the marks say.”

  “Your base is strong. Good plot and amazing pacing for the word limit we were given,” he insisted. “All I did was add comments to improve on your delivery and suggest more evocative words in a few places. Now that I know your focus is broadcasting, it makes perfect sense, but adding emotion will help you really connect with the reader.”

  She nodded, because he was right. And knowing he planned a fiction career, she was anxious to see what changes he’d suggested.

  A gurgle signaled the end of the brew cycle, so she returned to the kitchen to retrieve the serving tray and coffee. Ryan’s brows rose when he spotted the Irish cream, but he added two teaspoons of sugar and splashed a shot of the liquor into his cup after she finished with the bottle.

  Her own mug within reach on a side table, Ali picked up her laptop, sat, and sunk into the plush couch cushions. They worked in sile
nce for a few minutes, and she debated reviewing his critique of her story first, or reading his assignment. Maybe it was better to approach his work with an objective mindset. She was just about to open the attachment on his email when he spoke.

  “What changed your mind?”

  “About what?”

  “Me.”

  She cast a quick glance in his direction to find him watching her intently. Her first instinct was to claim it’d been when he saved her from being crushed between two cars, but she realized that wasn’t entirely true.

  “You made the decision in class,” he continued. “When you backed me up without knowing what was going on. Why’d you do that?”

  She tried to shrug off his perceptiveness even as she wondered if he could read minds. “It seemed important—besides Liz finding out you lied, that is.”

  When he didn’t reply, she snuck another glance.

  “Was it?”

  He had that look on his face again. As if he had a major decision to make and wasn’t sure which way to go.

  After a few more clicks on his keyboard, Ryan set his laptop aside on the coffee table. “This is going to sound crazy…”

  “Coming from you? No way.”

  He tilted his head; the corners of his mouth quirked up as he shook his head in resignation.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t help it.” She shifted to face him on the couch, resting her hands on top of her computer to give him her full attention. “Go ahead, I won’t say another word until you’re done.”

  He took a deep breath. “The other day, when Professor Fielding came into the coffee shop…I think she hit on me.”

  Ali’s brows rose as his face colored. She shouldn’t be surprised, but it was the last thing she’d expected to hear.

  “But that’s crazy, right?” he asked. “I mean, someone like her wouldn’t have any interest in me…would she?”

  His questions sounded so hopeful, Ali wasn’t prepared for the weight of disappointment that crushed her chest. Had he given her a ride home and accepted her dinner invite just for the opportunity to learn more about Liz? The thought that their connection could be completely one-sided put an ache in her chest.

  “I’m done,” he prompted. “Your turn.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  He leaned forward with an impatient scowl. “I want you to tell me I’m an idiot, and it was all in my imagination. Let’s forget for a moment that she’s my professor, but she’s gotta be at least twenty years older than me.”

  Hope bloomed, but Ali held it in check. “Happens all the time. They’re called Cougars, and it wouldn’t be a first for Liz.”

  “It’d be a first for me,” he muttered.

  “Do you…want her to be a first?”

  “God no! I mean, sure, she’s hot and beautiful and sexy as hell, but…”

  “Really? There’s a ‘but’ after all that?” She could joke because, despite his glowing description, she’d heard a heartfelt truth in his quick denial and her disappointment had fled.

  Ryan remained serious as he admitted, “There’s been a few things about her that have really creeped me out.”

  Interesting word choice after hot and sexy. Ali recalled the dark haired figure on the Liberal Arts building stairs, and her pulse skipped a beat. “Like what?”

  “After I told her we were going to be critique partners, she warned me to be careful. Said she didn’t want me to regret my choice.”

  Indignation bit fast and hard. “What’s that supposed to mean? She’s never even read anything I’ve written.”

  His gaze met hers. “I think she was referring to you. As in, I chose you over her. She made her move, so to speak, right after I told her about the critique partner thing, and I didn’t react to her advance very well. The whole thing was very, very strange.”

  Doing her best to ignore the nervous flutter in her stomach after his admission that he’d chosen her, Ali said, “Aunt Liz is used to getting what she wants, which would explain her reactions this morning. And maybe that’s why…” She trailed off, suddenly not sure she should even say anything.

  “What?”

  “Forget it.” She studied the logo on her laptop cover. “You’ll just think I’m crazy.”

  “Ali, after the week I’ve had, nothing you say would surprise me.”

  “Okay, fine.” Under her fingertip, the raised letters contrasted with the rest of the smooth, cool cover. “Just before the accident, I swear I saw her standing outside the building, watching us from the top of the stairs. And afterwards, she was still there. Watching.”

  “Do you think she had something to do with the accident?” he asked.

  Her gaze whipped up to his. “What? How—why would you say that?”

  “I don’t know.” Color rose in his face again. “It’s stupid. I’m sorry, I told you, it’s been a really weird week.”

  “Well, I’m not even sure it was her. By the time I could get closer for a better look, she was gone—whoever it was. And you know, now that I think about it, after that whole scene in class, my mind was probably still fixed on her.”

  “That’s probably it,” he agreed, avoiding her eyes as he reached for his computer. “I guess we should get back to work.”

  “Yeah. Good idea.”

  Ali attempted to focus her thoughts in the ensuing silence. Unfortunately, his words continued to echo in her mind. Even if it was Aunt Liz on the steps, no way she could’ve had anything to do with the car accident all the way across the lawn. Not only was the thought preposterous, it was impossible.

  Determined to forget what Ryan had suggested, she opened his creative writing assignment and began reading. At the end of the first page, she had a hard time swallowing past the lump in her throat. She wanted to stop, but couldn’t force her eyes from the screen.

  Three paragraphs from the end, the prickle that’d started along the back of her neck had turned into a full body tremble.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 7

  Ryan heard a sharp inhale from Ali’s side of the couch. He looked over to see her fingers pressed against her lips, a visible tremor in her hand. When she lifted her gaze from the computer screen, his heart constricted in his chest at the sight of her tear-bright eyes.

  “How did you know this?” she whispered.

  “Know what? What’s wrong?”

  “Your story…how…why would you write this?”

  An attack of nerves eclipsed confusion, and he gave her a tentative smile. “Wow. I was hoping for a reaction, but I didn’t expect something so extreme. Did you at least like it?”

  She shook her head. A flash of disappointment was quickly buried under guilt when the moisture in her eyes slipped over her lashes and trickled down her cheeks. Her hands still shook as she dashed the tears away.

  “Is it the writing, or the story?” he asked.

  “Why did you let her drown? You should’ve saved her.”

  The story. “It’s fiction, Ali.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  Ryan frowned at the choked emotion in her voice. “I have these dreams,” he explained. “When I wake up, I write them in a notebook and use them for ideas. That’s all that is.”

  “No.” In one swift move, she dumped her laptop on the couch and stood. Shoulders hunched, she drew into herself as she stalked to the French doors. Night had fallen, but he sensed she stared beyond her reflection in the glass. What did she see out there in the dark?

  Realization struck like lightning. The pond. God, he was an idiot! She’d revealed a fear of water earlier, and then he’d gone and sent her a story about a little girl who saw a ghost beneath the surface of a lake and drowned.

  He set his things aside to join her by the doors. Light from behind shadowed her profile, and yet the meager glow of the crescent moon glimmered on her damp cheek.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly. She flinched at his touch on her shoulder, but when she didn’t pull away, he slid his hand across
her back. Enfolding her in a hug from behind, he covered her ice-cold arms with his and entwined their fingers. His chin fit perfectly in the crook of her shoulder. The faint scent of wildflowers teased his senses.

  “I should’ve remembered what you said before I sent the email.”

  She didn’t say anything for a long moment, and when she did speak, he had to strain to hear the words.

  “You wrote my story.”

  “I wrote a dream,” he insisted. “And I changed the ending. The girl didn’t drown in my dream; I just thought her death made more of an impact in the end. You know, creative license, engage the reader’s emotions, that kinda stuff.”

  She twisted free of his arms to face him. Now the lamplight illuminated her features and revealed accusation in her eyes.

  “What you wrote…the little girl in the water, the weeds pulling at her legs, dragging her under, her gasping for air and choking on water as she struggled for the surface…” She pointed outside. “That happened to me in that very pond. Everything is exact in my memory, down to the last detail of the reeds along the shore. Except I didn’t drown. Obviously.” She attempted a smile that failed miserably.

  Her words had raised goose bumps on his arms. “No. It can’t be the same. I had the dream years ago. And I wrote a lake. There’s a ghost in my story. Did you see a ghost?” he challenged, wanting to prove what he’d written had nothing to do with her.

  “No,” she admitted.

  “See?”

  “But I was looking for one.”

  His pulse sped up when he realized she wasn’t kidding.

  “I was ten when I first heard about the Ghost of Still Waters.” She paused as if waiting for his acknowledgement.

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s a local legend, kind of like Bloody Mary. You know that one, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, the Still Waters ghost is a witch that drowned many years ago. They say if you look into the water and say her name, her face appears. Then she pulls people under and drowns them.”

  A chill crawled up his spine and activated the fine hairs on the back of his neck. The tale had a familiar ring beyond his dream and subsequent story.