Ghosts of Boyfriends Past

by Vivi Andrews

  Biz still felt the delicious aftershocks of her orgasm rippling through her limbs, but her mind couldn’t slow down enough to slip into lazy oblivion. He’d said it. The L word.

  “Do you always say the love thing during sex?”

  “No.”

  Just that. Her mind felt like a Tilt-A-Whirl, and he only had one syllable for her.

  “Well, okay then.”

  His hands snuck into her hair, burrowing into her curls and sliding along her scalp. It felt wonderful, soothing, but Biz wasn’t ready to be soothed.

  She cleared her throat. “So you meant to say the love thing. To me.”

  His eyes opened just enough for him to look at her between his thick lashes. “I didn’t mean to say it. I’m not trying to push you, Biz. I understand if you aren’t ready to talk about this yet, but I feel what I feel and I’m not going to lie about it.”

  “I see. So you feel love. For me.”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  Biz swallowed thickly. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, there were tears pressing against the back of her eyes. She tucked her face against his chest, not wanting him to see her face. “Okay then.”

  “Biz…” His hands abandoned her hair and began caressing down her body, reawakening her nerve endings everywhere he touched. “I can practically hear your brain scrambling madly away. Stop overthinking everything.”

  “I’m not,” she muttered in protest, though it came out as more of a moan as his fingers found a good spot.

  He rolled the two of them over, grinning down at her, his hands never stopping. “I think I need to work harder to shut down your brain.” He walked kisses up her neck to tease the rim of her ear. “No more talking. No more worrying. No more thinking things to death. Tonight, just feel.”

  Biz sighed, her eyelids fluttering shut. “I can do that.”

  Chapter Twenty—Flowers of Doom

  After two weeks of angst, it was something as small as a flower that convinced Biz she was officially, one hundred percent, head over heels in love.

  The fact that the flower was a red rose surrounded by twenty-three other crisp red roses and a sprinkling of fluffy white baby’s breath in a glass vase with a giant red bow around it was almost too cliché to be borne, but she was too giddy to care.

  When Marjorie, Parish’s florist, shouldered her way into the shop carrying the arrangement, the composition of Biz’s heart had changed. It was suddenly several pounds lighter, fit to float right out of her chest.

  A man who sent you two dozen roses the morning after he told you he loved you was a keeper in her book.

  “From the gentleman across the street.” Marjorie winked broadly as she settled the flowers on Biz’s counter.

  Biz had been gazing dreamily at them ever since. A little white card sat among the blooms, but she was saving it to read later when she wanted to renew this glowy, dippy feeling.

  The bells over the door jangled and Biz looked up hopefully, expecting to see Mark, but instead Curtis Bloom shuffled in, his posture, as always, like he was trying to fade into the floorboards.

  Biz smiled warmly, pleased with the world, and stood so she could see him around the massive floral arrangement. “Good morning, Mr. Bloom. Isn’t it a lovely day?”

  He blushed and tossed an uncertain glance at the distinctly stormy weather outside before returning her smile hesitantly. “Lovely.” He shuffled a few steps deeper into the store, nodding toward the roses. “Do you like them?”

  “Aren’t they gorgeous?” She beamed. “I just adore roses.” Especially today. Especially red roses which meant love in every language.

  Curtis ducked his chin. “I’m so glad.”

  It took a moment for his comment to penetrate her love bubble. When it did, a disquieting suspicion slithered through her thoughts. It can’t be.

  Biz snatched the pristine white card from the bouquet and opened it with trembling fingers.

  For a woman more beautiful than roses.—C.B.

  C.B. Curtis Bloom. In no way did those initials apply to Mark Ellison. Biz’s stomach clenched as memories flickered to life. Mr. Bloom sidling up to her tent at the schnapps festival. Mr. Bloom popping by the store only to leave without buying anything, blushing whenever she looked at him. Curtis Bloom hovering always on the edge of her awareness, but so intently aware of her.

  The curse hadn’t been after Mark at all. It had been Curtis.

  “You sent me flowers,” she said softly.

  Curtis flushed and bobbed his head. “I didn’t want to wait until Valentine’s Day to send them. Figured you’d be getting a bunch of them then and I wanted to stand out.”

  “Thank you. They’re beautiful.” Biz tucked the card back in among the blooms. “Curtis, can I ask you a question that’s kind of invasive and is going to sound really strange?”

  “You can ask me anything,” he vowed, a little too fervently for comfort.

  “Are you…?” How did you ask someone if he was dying? “Are you ill?”

  He was so pale, so frail and thin, his eyes always a little glassy, but Biz hadn’t seen those things as symptoms until Curtis nodded. “I haven’t told anyone, but I should have known you would know. They said you were psychic.”

  “I’m not psychic.” Just a witch with a track record. “How long?”

  “A few months.” He shifted from foot to foot. “I didn’t mean anything by the flowers. I just… I always liked the idea of wooing someone, you know? Didn’t want to be alone…in the end.”

  Biz’s heart tightened, tears threatening, but she held them back. She wouldn’t insult Curtis’s quiet dignity by blubbering all over him. “I’m honored to be the one you picked to woo. Though…I am seeing someone.”

  “I know.”

  Biz suddenly realized what it was that had made all her boys pursue her. It wasn’t her irresistibleness. It was the fact that they had needed company and comfort. None of them had family and they were all medically past the point of hope. They hadn’t needed her so much as they had needed Parish.

  She may not be able to cure him, but she could make sure Curtis wasn’t alone. “C’mon, Mr. Bloom. Let me introduce you to the town.”

  She looped her arm through his and pulled him out the door, trying not to think about curses and consequences.

  It was Curtis Bloom the curse had caught. Curtis Bloom who would be its target on the fourteenth. But what about Mark? Was he at risk too?

  Could she save Curtis with true love for the wrong man?

  She was walking too fast, talking too fast, as she dragged Curtis through town, introducing him to everyone as an honorary Parishioner, but she had to keep moving, keep talking, or the panic would catch up with her.

  Thank God Gillian was coming over this afternoon to do something to her freaky plastic-heart thing. She needed advice and she needed it two weeks ago.

  Chapter Twenty-One—Purple Pumpkin Love Revisited

  “Let me see if I have this straight. You’re really a witch who accidentally cursed herself and for the last two weeks you’ve been trying to fall in love with Mark because that’s the only way to break the spell that kills all your dates on Valentine’s Day, only today you just found out that you’ve been trying to fall for the wrong guy, whom you might actually have fallen for, but you aren’t sure, and the universe really wanted you to throw yourself at the emaciated pale guy who’s been watching you from across the street for the last month. Have I got that?”

  “Essentially, yes.”

  “Sorry, honey. You’re screwed.” Gillian turned back to the bizarre surgery she was performing on the Purple Gourd of Lovin’.

  “Gillian. Can you please say something helpful?”

  “Can you fly?”

  “Can I…? No. How is that helpful?”

  “It isn’t. I just thought it’d be cool.”

  “Could you take this seriously?”

  Gillian looked up from the gourd and made a face. “Sorry. It’s kind of a lot to take in. I’m trying to
be the best friend ever in the history of the universe, but you know I process with snark. Just give me a sec to be a smartass and then I’ll get in the game.”

  “Right. Sorry. I did kind of drop this on you.”

  Gillian waved away her apology and went back to pouring something that looked way too much like blood into one of the hidden spouts in the heart thingy.

  “What does that stuff do?”

  “If we’re lucky, it’ll spurt like an arterial bleed. Pretty sweet, huh?”

  “That is so disturbing.”

  “Just so we’re clear, this isn’t like an empowerment thing, is it? I am witch, hear me roar and all that?”

  “No. Literally. A witch.”

  “Okay then.” Gillian closed the spout on the heart and carefully opened another chamber. “There were all those rumors about your gran.”

  “Not just rumors.”

  “So what do you do exactly?”

  “Mostly I cast spells and make charms to help people find the one they’ve been looking for. I can’t create feelings and I would never cast a spell to make someone in love.” She winced. Technically she’d sort of done that with the curse. “Not intentionally, anyway. I’m just giving people nudges in the right direction, asking the universe for favors to help people bump into the right guy at the supermarket.”

  Gillian’s hands stilled, but she didn’t look up. “Do you remember when Dave and I got together? I was so sick of guys who decided I was too weird for them when I didn’t act like the perfect debutante they thought I looked like. I remember one night I must have complained to you for three hours straight about how useless men were that they couldn’t handle a little originality. How badly I wanted to find someone who liked all the things about me that scared other men off. And the very next day, Dave moved to Parish. Did you have anything to do with that?”

  “I may have cast a spell for you that night.”

  “I knew it!” Gillian crowed, rocking back on her heels and grinning broadly. “I thought that was a weird coincidence, but it was you.”

  Biz felt the tension in her shoulders unknot so quickly she nearly melted right off her chair. Just like when she’d told Mark, coming clean and having Gillian accept her was a huge relief.

  “Wow. My best friend is a magical matchmaker. Do you have any other super powers?”

  “I’m not Superwoman.” But right now she felt invincible and yet light as a feather, as if a boulder of secrecy she’d been dragging around her entire life had turned into a soap bubble and popped. If not for the whole curse business, life would have been pretty damn fabulous. “I don’t know what to do, Gilly. How did things get so messed up?”

  “You got drunk. New PSA for witches—don’t drink and cast.”

  “Ha ha.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll figure this out.” She nodded sharply, focusing on the goal at hand. Finding solutions was Gillian’s strong suit. “Tell me exactly what this counterspell thing you found says.”

  “Only the selflessness of one truly in love can break the spell. But I don’t love Curtis. I barely even know him.”

  “Did it say you had to love Curtis? Or just that you had to be truly in love?”

  “Well, the person I’m in love with has to be there, but I guess it never said it had to be a victim of the curse. I just thought…”

  “How sure are you that Curtis is the intended victim?”

  “He fits the pattern Mark found—moving to the island immediately after discovering he was terminal.”

  “But you said you don’t actually remember what the original spell said. Bloom could just be a red herring.”

  “It seems unlikely.”

  “Well, you aren’t going to fall for him in two days anyway, so Mark is your best bet. Do you love him?”

  “I don’t know. I was positive I loved him when I thought I was supposed to be in love with Curtis, but now? How can you tell?”

  “You’re asking me. Okay. Um. Love. Right. It’s…”

  Biz snorted. “It’s a sign of how desperate I am that I’m asking you to define love for me.”

  “Hey, we’re two smart women. We can figure this out.” Gillian put down the Gourd of Lovin’. “Okay, let’s look at this logically. Have you said you love him?”

  “No.”

  “Has he said he loves you?”

  “Yes. But there were extenuating circumstances.”

  “Meaning you were in bed. I don’t need details, but I’m pretty sure that doesn’t count.”

  “But I mentioned it and he didn’t take it back.”

  “Which is really more a sign that he’s not a dickhead or a moron than a symptom of love, but we’ll let that slide. Okay. How did him saying he loved you make you feel?”

  “Terrified, but in a good way.”

  “That’s sort of promising.”

  “But what if I do love him? As soon as I break the curse, everything he feels for me is going to vanish into smoke. Poof.”

  “You think he only loves you because of the curse?”

  “Can you think of another reason a guy like that would go for me? He’ll be gone before you can say abracadabra, and I’ll probably end up in an asylum when he prints his piece on what a nutcase I am. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life medicated to my eyeballs.”

  “I take it you told him the witch thing.”

  “I’ve told him everything. Things about myself I haven’t even told you. Part of it was because I kind of thought he was going to die so it didn’t matter. Part of it was because I just love telling him things. Talking to him is like a drug.”

  “Sounds like you really like him.”

  “I do. Liking him isn’t the problem. It’s the true-love thing. That is an insane amount of pressure to put on a relationship with a guy I’ve only known three weeks.”

  “Especially for you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m just saying you’re not really into rushing into relationships. That’s all.”

  “Hey, I’m all about love. I’m all about risking your heart. I’m a matchmaker, for Pete’s sake.”

  “You’re the fairy godmother. It takes a lot more guts to be Cinderella and haul your ass to the ball than it does to be the one in the background waving the magic wand. You’ve never had to risk anything, Biz. Especially not your heart.”

  “Ouch.” Though what Gillian was saying did mirror what she already suspected. She’d been a chicken in the love department. “I feel about a million and one things right now, but I can’t tell if any of them are love.” She folded her arms around her middle, as if she could hold the pieces of herself together. “I’m a mess, Gilly. I’m terrified of failing—like if I try to work the spell only to fail because there’s something broken in me and I can’t love anyone. God, I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

  “Have to have it to begin with for that to work, hon.”

  “Gillian. I’m serious. My head is spinning in so many circles I think it may explode.”

  “Not medically possible. I’ve checked. Seriously, how cool would that be to fix?”

  “Gillian.”

  “What to do. Right. You need a plan. Can you send him away?”

  “Magic doesn’t respect geography, and he refuses to leave anyway.”

  “He does seem to be welded to your side lately. Speaking of, where is your other half today?”

  “He had to drive back to Raleigh for the day. He said he’ll be back on the last ferry. And right now I am dreading the second when he steps off that ferry. I’m so freaking scared.”

  Gillian slung an arm around Biz’s shoulders. “You’re human. Even if you are a witch. You’re allowed to be confused and scared. What does Mark think of the whole gotta-be-love thing?”

  Biz scrunched up her face. “That’s the one thing I haven’t told him. I didn’t know what to say.”

  “Honey, you have to tell him.”

  “I know. I was just hoping I’d be certain by now.
I was hoping it wouldn’t be confusing and awful anymore and I could say, ‘Look, I found the spell and I love you so we’re all set!’ But it didn’t happen like that.”

  “Tell him. Ask him to do the spell with you. And take a Valium or three. You need to relax, babe.”

  What she needed was to feel like the fate of Curtis Bloom and Mark Ellison and a trio of ghosts didn’t rest on her ability to be an emotionally balanced human being. She’d always been slow to trust, and this was just too much.

  But this time she didn’t have a choice.

  Chapter Twenty-Two—Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?

  “You’ve been trying to force yourself to fall in love with me?”

  “Um…sorta.”

  Biz’s declaration was a kick to the stomach. They were parked in the ferry off-loading lot, right in front of the giant Kiss ’n’ Ride sign. He’d been so excited to see her waiting for him when he drove off the ferry, so eager to tell her about his trip to Raleigh.

  The Parish Island romance series had been a hit. A few of the columns had been syndicated on the blog and even gone viral in the pre-Valentine’s build-up. When he’d pitched his editor on the idea of staying on Parish and doing a series of biweekly columns on island living, she’d nearly passed out from joy. He’d thought it was perfect, that everything in his life was falling together at just the right time, like the universe was working for him all of a sudden. He had a job he loved, a girl who would always keep him guessing, a great community, and a house that would keep him busy with repairs once he and Biz were ready to move in together.

  But apparently one of the things Biz was going to keep him guessing about was whether or not they had a real relationship. He thought they’d gotten beyond the curse made me do it, but evidently not.

  “Mark?”

  “I’m trying to figure out how I feel about this.”

  In the passenger seat, Biz flinched at his harsh tone, and Mark had to stop his reflex to reach out blindly to comfort her.

  “Do you even like me?”