A Date with the Other Side (Cuttersville #1)(59)
Author: Erin McCarthy

“I was thinking about it.”

Very slowly, he leaned back against the end table next to the sofa. “I see. So all this time, while you were making love to me, you were thinking about marrying Danny Tucker.”

When put that way, it sounded so gosh darn awful. She’d just sent things from bad to hell in a handbasket. “Boston . . .”

“Shelby,” he said with barely contained control, though it felt like someone had hacked out his insides with a machete, “I’m asking you to get your things and leave. I really prefer you didn’t spend the night.”

She stood there in front of him, rumpled and sexy, her lips still swollen from his kisses, and knew she had just taken the piece of him he’d given her and thrown it back in his face. “Boston, let’s talk about this. Marrying Danny would be the practical thing to do.”

“Fuck practical.” His determination to be rational, calm, unemotional shattered. “I told you that I love you. And you stand there and say you want to go back to a man who can’t even give you an orgasm?”

“That’s not fair. I was young . . .” She stuck her fingers on her temples and squeezed. “I can’t believe I’m having this discussion with you, God. This isn’t fair to Danny. I shouldn’t have told you.”

Her concern was for Danny?

Boston couldn’t take any more. He wanted to be alone with his hurt, to tamp it down in private. It was a trick he was good at. When he’d been a child and his parents had fought or rejected his attempts to gain their attention, he’d gotten very good at hiding it, nursing his wounds off by himself.

“Shelby, I’ll go upstairs and get your bag. You can continue the tour in the mornings, but I’m going to have to ask you not to do the five o’clock tour anymore. I don’t want to have to be here for that.”

Her mouth worked, but she didn’t say anything.

“I hope that you’ll be very happy as the farmer’s wife, but I’d prefer not to receive an invitation to the wedding.” He gave what he hoped was a passable smile.

The thought of her marrying Danny Tucker, warming his bed, taking him into her mouth, had him heading for the door with Olympic sprint speed.

“Oh, Boston,” she said, touching his arm as he moved past her.

That sound of pity was like acid on an open wound.

He was saved from having to reply by the TV turning off and the lights turning on, plunging them both into artificial brightness and temporarily blinding him.

“What the hell?” He blinked against the glaring lamplight and looked around the room. All three lamps plus the hall light were on, and the red light of the camera he knew he’d turned off glowed.

“Uh . . .” Shelby was suddenly at his side, standing so close he wanted to throttle her.

Didn’t she know he could smell her? Feel her arm brushing his? Didn’t she know he was suffering the agonizing painful death of hope while they stood there?

He didn’t give a shit if the ghosts in this nuthouse stood up and did the macarena. He wanted to be alone almost as much as he wanted Shelby. As his wife.

The spirits didn’t do any line dances, but every cushion on the sofa and the numerous chairs throughout the room were slung to the floor by unseen hands like a toddler throwing a tantrum. The drawers on the occasional tables jerked out with harsh squeaking sounds, and the distinct stomping of angry footsteps did a circle around the coffee table.

For once, Boston felt in total sympathy with Red-Eyed Rachel. If Shelby wasn’t standing next to him, he just might throw a tantrum along with her.

“Someone’s having a mighty big hissy fit,” Shelby said in awe, grabbing on to his arm. “Shouldn’t we leave?”

“And miss the fun?” But he did move Shelby behind him, closer to the hallway if it should become necessary to run or dodge flying objects.

“I don’t think anybody’s having fun in here.”

Twin candelabras left the fireplace mantel and bounced on the hardwood floor with an ear-splitting rattle.

Boston wanted to stay, amazed and almost awed by what he was seeing in front of his very skeptical eyes. And it matched his own mood so profoundly, he was almost amused. But he gave Shelby a little nudge. “Just back out of the room, Shel, and go out onto the porch.”

Her anxious breathing was loud in the suddenly still room, the silence ominous, the air shifting, waiting. He heard Shelby take two steps backward. And scream.

Whirling around, he saw her standing in front of the pocket door, arms up, statue still. Over her head he saw a man leaning against the door, with thick blond hair and prominent sideburns. He wore a black double-breasted suit and had his head cocked slightly to the left, like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. A puzzled frown was on his face, then he wavered, dissipated, was gone.

Shelby turned back to him. “The Blond Man, Boston, that’s who that was!” She covered her mouth. “But he wasn’t smiling. He’s supposed to always be smiling.”

A little stunned by what he could swear he’d seen, yet what seemed so unbelievable, Boston shook his head. “Maybe he doesn’t like Rachel’s antics.”

Or theirs. Maybe the guy was smarter than both he and Shelby and saw they were making a mistake.

It certainly felt like one.

Chapter Nineteen

Shelby had been putting it off long enough.

So she had called Danny and asked him to come meet with her at the Yellow House. He was due any minute, and she paced the length of the porch wondering how she would tell him that she couldn’t marry him.

In the week since she’d made love to Boston in the parlor, Shelby had had a lot of time to think. Too much time, despite the numerous TV interviews and influx of ghost gawkers. Because every time she spoke, she thought of Boston. And every time she thought of him, she had a whole series of doubts that ran through her head.

Doubts that maybe she’d made a mistake. Doubts that maybe love was worth giving up everything she knew. Doubts that she could ever find happiness or passion with another man.

Certainly not with Danny. It wasn’t fair to him, and it wasn’t fair to her. She would be half a wife to him, and that was fifty percent less than he deserved.

Knowing that didn’t make it any easier to say, though. By the time Danny bounded up the steps with confidence and a pleasant smile, Shelby was sweating like a cold Coke can.

“Hey, Shel, what’s up?” He kissed her on the forehead. “Is anything wrong?”