My client acknowledged none of this. As the human-sized dark-haired doll, squished in amongst the short, pudgy yarn-haired variety, I wasn’t even a blip on Josh’s radar. As it should be. Quarter after quarter of game play occurred on an ancient classic upright. During the hours between nine and five. Must be nice having a job in a company Daddy owned. Wished I did.
A few hours after I’d originally left, I returned to Fated Match. Walking through the double doors with minimal Intel in hand, my mind was in a battle between thoughts of my mother’s pendant and BSing ideas for the rest of my report due to Maude. Work won, and I became determined to type up something—anything— that would keep my employment status firmly inside the safe zone.
One ghost greeted me as I entered, practically bouncing off the cream-colored seat cushion. There was absolutely nothing at all prim or proper about that childish behavior, either. My refusal to meet the set of bright eyes went either unnoticed or unheeded—probably the latter.
No time was had for over dramatic spirits when there were tasks to complete: reports to Maude, followed by ghost hunting. Because… screw waiting until Wednesday when one damned—as in the eternal flames kind—ghost had my mother’s—my stolen pendant. The thief could meet his flames now. After handing over the goods, of course. Focus was pivotal for my plotting because success would commence. I had no other choice.
“He found it,” Miss Prim squealed. “He found the safe box.”
Focus imploded as Feet jerked to a halt. I glanced at the he in question. HG was absently rubbing Hellhound’s long snout, the only location on the hound’s body not covered in flames. The beast’s preference for HG over me now perfectly explained. No way was I touching a small, bare patch of fur so close to fire. One accidental jerk and my hand would be lit. No thank you.
“You found the safe deposit box?” I asked.
“No.”
Miss Prim stopped bouncing mid-air—literally. Interesting the sorts of tricks one could pull when not confined to Earth’s gravity. She stared at the seated ghost across from her. “You said you did.”
“I said the selections of banks were narrowed,” HG said. “Not my fault if you’re yapping instead of listening to my words.”
The too-perky ghost fell silent. An irritated huff escaped thin lips as she leaned against the back of the chair and plopped down onto the cushion. Arms were crossed over chest. No doubt HG had been placed back on Miss Prim’s Ignore List… for the fourth time this week. It was only Monday, but the average number of times his name earned a spot by each Friday was usually in the double-digits.
Margaret materialized, rockin’ a beaded fringed pink dress and high heels. Her eyes swept the room, and her brows raised when her gaze landed on Miss Prim. With a shake of her head, Margaret’s focus turned to me. “Your ghost was over at Jake’s last night hitting on my date.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Jake’s?” HG jumped to his feet and faced Margaret. “I informed her that I’d take her.”
My gaze searched out Miss Prim’s for an explanation of what the hell’s going on, but her face was lit with too much glee to appreciate my silent communication.
“I told you she didn’t want to date you,” Miss Prim said. “Work on your charm.”
“That’s bunk,” HG said.
Margaret raised another brow—in agreement or disagreement, I couldn’t tell.
Staring at the ghosts in the room wasn’t getting me anywhere in the explanation department, so I focused on Hellhound instead. The beast appeared as baffled as me… if laying his head on the floor and covering his snout with plate-sized paws before slamming his eyes shut for an afternoon nap indicated bafflement.
Raising my voice, I asked, “Are we discussing Anna?”
Three ghosts turned to face me. “Yes.”
“Wait—she speaks?”
“No,” Margaret said.
“Then how was she flirting with… hold on a second. I thought you broke up with your boyfriend?” I asked, pinning a stare at Margaret.
“That was Tim.” Miss Prim shook her head. “This is Joe.”
All right then. “How was Anna flirting with Joe?”
“It was in her look,” Margaret said.
“Her look?”
“Yes, like this.” Margaret faced HG and stared.
“Oh, I see,” HG said, nodding.
I didn’t see a damned thing, but who was I to question ghostly drama? The Margaret I’d first been introduced to had been quiet and agreeable. Now I witnessed a dead woman working her way through men like chocolate while enjoying being in the know about all things worthy of gossip. What the hell happened? My gaze settled on possible culprit numero uno, who was too busy smoothing down her swing skirt to notice my glare. A smug smile remained plastered on Miss Prim’s pale face. I was certain guilt also reflected in that look. Acknowledgment that she was a bad influence on Margaret. The fact Miss Prim’s smirk remained directed at HG, instead of a regretful stare turned toward Margaret, was inconsequential.
“Why doesn’t she speak?” I asked, wondering if there was a plausible explanation for Anna’s silence.
Three pale faces turned back to me, and I was left with the impression my question had been on the side of crass.
“She hung,” HG said.
My brows drew together because… what did her method of death have anything to do with…
“No!” I lunged forward, but too late. Five client applications were now a pile of ash. Destroyed. None of them yet typed into my database. One mutt from Hell had apparently decided sleep was overrated and paper was a necessary source of food. Or play, thanks to HG and his games of fetch.
“Bad Hellhound.”
The mutt looked up, his mouth sagging open into a whine. Two-thirds of Ashley Jenkins paperwork drooped out of a large jaw.
I pointed. “Drop it.”
Another whine.
“Give that to me.”
Hellhound clenched sharp teeth down firmly on the remaining page, somehow—miraculously—not burning it along with the rest.
“I said—”
“Um, excuse me?”
The voice wasn’t familiar. It came from the front door. Oh, shit. I looked up to early thirties, sun-kissed blond hair, and an easy smile.
The man stepped forward. “Bad time?”
Scrambling around my desk, I snatched up the remaining piece of Ashley’s application Hellhound had wisely dropped onto the rug and ignored the sulking oversized beast as he tucked his tail and ambled back to HG. “No, not a bad time at all. How may I help you?”
“Are you certain you’re all right?” His gaze lowered to the paper clutched in my hand. “Was there a fire? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine, it was only… only…” Well, hell. There was no plausible explanation for this scenario. “Are you looking to fill out an application?”
“Are they all partially burned?”
“No, why…” I looked up, realizing he joked. Smiled. Dare I say… flirted?
“Detective Wilcox,” a voice coughed a reminder from the reception chair to my right.
Pulling out a fresh client application from my desk drawer, I handed it over to the handsome man with my own friendly smile. “What brought you to Fated Match today, Mister?”
“Ahem.”
The clearing of a throat, also coming from the direction to my right, sounded very judgmental. One nosy ghost most likely couldn’t tell the difference between friendly and flirtatious.
“Connelly,” the man said. “Brock Connelly.”
“Well, Mr. Connelly, if you’d please fill out the application, I will let you know if Maude can be of assistance to you within the next couple of days.” As soon as I can determine your net worth, that is.
“Brock, please.” His smile was enchanting.
“A-hem!”
“Mr. Connelly, if you’d like to take a seat—”
“Errand girl.” The front door blasted open, and a whirlwind of pos
h clothing, expensive perfume, and perfectly applied makeup on a photographic-worthy face rushed inside. In other words, Desiree Hurst had decided to grace me with her presence. The woman tugged down a set of Louis Vuitton sunglasses from the bridge of her nose. “It’s Monday. Where’s my— oh, hello.”
Desiree had spotted Brock. Brock noticed Desiree. She smiled. He didn’t.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Hurst.” Mind scrambled to recall what I’d forgotten. Oh, crap… “I will have your dry cleaning to you…”
A dismissive hand was waved in my direction as Desiree studied the now seated man who remained bent over the application I’d given him to complete. Brock didn’t look up as she stared. A frown line creased, marring her smooth skin as the toe to one designer shoe began tapping. Being ignored was apparently a new experience for the highly paid model who had graced the covers of numerous magazines over the past few years. And not an occurrence she was pleased with if the tight scowl determined anything.
Brock stood. Desiree’s shoulders straightened while the obvious irritation cleared across her face. Right as a highly insured smile—as in, there was no doubt an insurance policy for that upward curve—formed on perfectly pouty lips, Brock turned to me with arm extended, completed application in hand.
“Now…” He held tight to the sheet of paper as I attempted to tug it free from his grip “I don’t believe I caught your name?”
So flirting. I felt flattered because, I mean… what girl doesn’t when a hot guy smiles in her direction? But also I felt awkward. It could have been due to Desiree’s peaches and cream complexion turning into the shade of a ripe tomato. Or her hands that clenched so tight her fists were now ghostly white while her intense gaze remained unblinking on my face. Perhaps it was because of my… Wilcox. Whatever he was. We weren’t exactly defined yet, but those hot kisses that made my toes curl were utmost in my thoughts as Brock Connelly kept an interested gaze focused on me.
“Ms. Blake,” I said, finally succeeding in securing his application from his grasp, and setting it on top of my desk. “Now how—”
“That is a Miss, correct?” A perfectly shaped golden eyebrow rose in question. “Are we to be so formal as to not share first names?”
“Uh…”
“Kiara.” Desiree’s foot was back to tapping. Her tone of voice hard in warning. Brock jerked a step backward at the sound of my name, obviously having forgotten she was in the room. What was worse, it became apparent by the tightening of Desiree’s scowl that she’d drawn the same conclusion.
“Well, Miss Kiara Blake,” Brock said. “It has been a pleasure meeting you. I hope to hear from you soon.”
With a polite nod in the direction of Desiree, Brock Connelly exited the suite leaving a moment of stunned silence in his wake.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Hurst,” I squeaked before clearing my throat in search of my voice. “I’ll have your dry cleaning picked—”
“Never mind that,” Desiree said. “Are there spirits in the room?”
“Uh, well…” I glanced over to discover one Hellhound and one ghostly face glaring at the now vacant doorway while two pale feminine features stared wide-eyed at me. “Maybe…”
“What did they say? Is he my match?”
I stared at Desiree… because seriously? Did the woman not witness the same last five minutes I had? She had been ignored. Politely glossed over. And, I had to confess, it was a massive ego boost for me being the woman Brock’s interest had been directed toward. I had caught a man’s attention over a supermodel. Right now, Hadley had to be my un-BFF? No way in hell was I calling Lacey with this news—that was, if the witch with a capital B was even back to speaking to me instead of panicking that I’d ram her straight to Hell with my sword. If only I could…
“It doesn’t exactly work that way, Ms. Hurst,” I said, thoughts refocusing on the peeved-off woman standing before me.
“Well, tell your ghosts that he is the one I want.”
“He’s not a good match,” Miss Prim pipped in. “His butt isn’t as nice as Detective Wilcox’s. You need to remember that, Kiara.”
I ducked my head down to cover up my sigh.
“What does his application say?” Desiree asked. “What does he do? He’d better not be a dog person. Dogs are slobbery, and they smell.”
The model made a grab for Brock’s application, which I managed to sweep from her outreaching grasp just in the nick of time.
“Desiree, hi!” Maude stepped out of her office. Heels clacked against the floor as she rushed over to give air kisses to both of Desiree’s cheeks. “I wasn’t aware you were stopping in today. Kiara was about to call and—”
“I’m working with Kiara now.”
Maude took a step back. “Excuse me?”
Oh shit.
“Kiara will help match me with a suitable mate. I told you I was looking for someone steady in my life. You keep throwing me useless dates.”
A hard gaze settled on the side of my head. I didn’t even have to look up to know it was there. Nope, the silent what the hell do you think you’re doing was felt loud and clear. So I did what any normal assistant/receptionist/errand girl would do when seconds away from a firing: plotted out ten ways to kiss my boss’s ass while typing up the best damn reports on the clients I had stalked that day. All would be served up to Maude with a bottle of chilled Champagne as soon as the problem client shut her ever-loving problematic mouth.
“Oh, I see,” Maude said.
Ice. Hands froze over the computer keyboard. Because frigid cold was what I felt slice through me from hearing those three little words.
“Dry cleaning tomorrow morning, Kiara.”
With that, Desiree was gone. Maude wasn’t. My boss hadn’t moved so much as a toe, actually. That was never a good sign.
I typed faster.
“Kiara?”
“The reports are about ready, Ms. Taggart.”
“Kiara.” She drew in a loud breath, one that sounded full of starving puppies and electrocuted rainbows. “Explain to me why my client thinks you will match her with her soulmate when it is my job to do so?”
“It’s a simple misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding that had better become understood, and Kiara?”
I looked up.
“I’m the matchmaker here. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Ms. Taggart.”
Maude disappeared into her office while I squirmed in my seat. Butt lurched upward at the sound of her slamming door. Well, hell. She’d been doing a lot of that of late.
I turned back to the ghosts to my right. Hellhound and HG still remained alert, staring at the front door to Fated Match.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I don’t like him,” HG said.
“Mr. Connelly was only here for a few minutes. How was that long enough to form an opinion?”
“He’s smarmy.”
Margaret leaned forward and whispered, “I taught him that word.”
“I don’t care if you like him,” I called as HG poofed, with Hellhound vanishing right behind. “Mr. Connelly only needs to like Desiree.”
“Oh, yes, his butt is quite perfect for Desiree,” Miss Prim said. “However, you should look only at Detective Wilcox’s butt.”
“Noted.” I went back to typing. And plotting. More ways to save my precarious job is what I sought. Over the last six weeks, my life had seriously turned into one cluster-fudge. Why was I so desperate to keep this position again? Oh, right. Rent.
Only one way this disaster could be salvaged: forget James Hogan, who I’d planned to match with Desiree. Convince Brock Connelly to give the high-maintenance diva a shot. And if they were a match made in Hades? Grabbing Brock’s application, I scanned his answers. Research on the man needed to be started. Pronto.
“What about Natalie’s dinner?” Miss Prim asked.
I froze. Ditching Trashae meant I had no update on the Bennett wedding, and I had turned that over to her expertise han
ds. She was the event planner, after all. But still…
“Who will I speak to every day if Ms. Taggart fires you?”
My gaze drifted back to concerned eyes. Mouth opened to speak, but I caught sight of Margaret instead. Fat tear drops dotted the corners of eyes coated heavily with mascara. The ghost sank down into HG’s vacated seat, her hands twisting tightly together in her lap as she awaited my answer.
Well, hell. Keeping a job simply to protect the feelings of two ghosts was a new one. Even for me.
Chapter 17
I had a date. Official date. Not one wiggled out of Wilcox in the guise of a suicidal-murder victim investigation. One sexy detective had shown up to Fated Match to ask me to dinner, and this time there would be no unruly ghosts leaving me drenched in sticky sparkling wine before the night was over. Especially when getting doused had earned no more than a good night peck at the evening’s end. Champagne not being a come-hither fragrance of perfume.
The memory of a bottle of Monet crashing against the wall above my head at the charity event, drenching me in chilled liquid, made me want to stick my sword into my former mark all over again. Have fun basking in those flames, jerk.
But now I had an opportunity for a real evening with Wilcox. Unexpected, despite the man having already made his demands to see me that night known. No doubt the plans were to keep an overbearing eye on what he considered my willful ways, so I had been startled when I’d observed the detective entering Fated Match looking on the side of nervous. Solo. No Mr. Laid Back in sight.
Appreciation for how much smaller the reception area became when one Ty Wilcox stood inside it was felt. The room had grown warmer—no, scorching hot, actually. The thermostat deciding to take a vaycay. Or perhaps that was simply my raging hormones reacting to the heat still lingering in his eyes? Previous mentions of handcuffs the culprit, no doubt. Not that I was opposed to making good use of those handcuffs…
Destined to Reap (Reaping Fate Book 3) Page 18
