Seeing is Believing (Cuttersville #3)(28)
Author: Erin McCarthy

Asking or suggesting the rental house meant she had expectations beyond tonight, and she was afraid to have expectations.

“Well, there’s always the blue house,” Brady said as he followed her down the stairs, his voice a warm promise. “It will be empty except for you and me.”

“True.” Now that he had said it first, all her anxiety instantly disappeared, consumed by desire. What had she been worried about? He clearly wanted to have sex with her as much as she did with him. Last night proved it. Now proved it all over again. “Swallow Street.” She darted a glance back at him on the stairs as she neared the bottom of the staircase. “Ironic-sounding name, don’t you think?”

His jaw dropped. “Holy shit. You’re going to kill me.”

She wasn’t sure where that bit of flirt had come from. But it had popped into her head, and so she’d said it. Not that she’d ever swallowed, but there was always a first time for everything. The look of astonishment on his face amused her.

Looking back at him, Piper never saw it coming. As she hit the landing at the bottom of the stairs, her body was facing the parlor, her head turned to Brady. So when something slammed into her head, the pain was so unexpected, she felt her knees buckle. The smell of blood filled her nostrils and she grabbed onto the railing, confused and woozy.

“What the f**k?” Brady asked.

Grabbing her temple, Piper fought back a wave of nausea and tried to figure out what had hit her.

It was a candlestick, now lying on the floor in two glass pieces.

           Chapter Seven

THE DOG CAME RUSHING INTO THE ENTRYWAY, BARKING at the wall as Brady tried to retrieve his gut from his throat and wrap his arm around Piper, who looked like she was fighting the urge to faint dead away. Jesus Christ. A f**king candlestick had lobbed her in the head.

But while she was bleeding a bit above her left eye, it was a small cut. She was more scared than injured, so Brady pulled her against him in a lean, taking her weight. “It’s okay. You’re alright.”

“She threw a candlestick at me.” Piper’s voice shook. “They’ve never thrown anything at me. Ever. And she pulled my hair earlier.”

“Maybe they just don’t like someone being here when Boston and Shelby aren’t. Maybe they’re trying to protect the girls. A warped sense of loyalty or something.” Brady led her into the kitchen, where he sat her down in a chair and pressed her wineglass into her hands. But then immediately, he realized her hands were shaking too badly to hold it without sloshing liquid all over her sundress, so he took it back and held it to her lips. “Have a sip.”

“My feelings are hurt,” she said after obligingly taking a drink. “I know that sounds stupid, but I always thought that the ghosts liked me. That they wanted to show themselves, talk to me because I could understand them, have sympathy for them. You know, like an outcast kind of thing.”

Brady pretty much sucked when it came to comforting anyone. He liked to be left the hell alone, or distracted with a workout or a trip to the microbrewery, when he was feeling bad. So he usually offered the same to someone when she was upset. Yet Piper wasn’t the kind of girl who would pump iron to improve her mood. She was different, and Brady found himself sitting in a chair at the ancient kitchen table, pulling her out of hers and onto his lap, where she snuggled up against him without hesitation. Without thought or warning, his hand reached up and stroked that glorious hair.

“Maybe she meant to hit me, not you. Think about it. Didn’t Rachel kill her fiancé with a candlestick? And he had my name, I might add. Plus I was flirting with you. Maybe it offended her.” That actually made more sense than anything else. Why would a spirit suddenly take a hit out on Piper? From what he could tell, everyone liked Piper. People defended Piper. They didn’t hit her.

“I didn’t see anything both times tonight, no sign of her. Normally I see her. I can sense her. Last night, after you left my room, Rachel stood at the foot of the bed for hours.”

Well, that was damn creepy. Brady wondered if Rachel had been there when they’d been getting busy. Ghosts seemed to have zero respect for privacy. Not that he could blame anyone for wanting to see Piper naked, dead or not. “She didn’t say anything?”

“No.”

“And you’ve been seeing her since you were a kid?”

“Yes.”

Brady shifted, the weight of Piper in his lap oddly comforting. He wasn’t even the one who needed comforting, yet there it was. A sense of contentment stealing over him. Like nights cuddling in a cozy kitchen weren’t a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all. He wiped the little streak of blood that still marred her forehead, wanting its glaring color gone from her beautiful skin. The cut was tiny but it still twisted his gut to see it, and he wiped her blood on his jeans.

“I think maybe we need to look a little more deeply into what happened, Piper. I think Rachel is trying to tell you something.”

“What—that she hates me?” Piper asked, her voice glum.

Brady laughed. “I don’t think it’s personal, honey. I just suspect she’s pissed that she’s stuck here. And hell, maybe she didn’t kill old Brady. Maybe that’s what she’s trying to tell you.”

“I didn’t ask to be able to see ghosts.”

“And I didn’t ask to be laid off. It just is what it is.”

Piper sat up and studied him so intently he fought the urge to look away. To crack a joke. Run for the nearest highway. His normal tactics when someone tried to ferret out his emotions or ask him for an honest answer. He forced himself to stay put, to keep his mouth shut, to wait to hear what Piper had to say.

“Why did you stop painting?” she asked.

Because it was Piper, and because she really wanted to know, Brady found himself telling her the truth. “Because it hurt too much. To see something in my head and then produce a pale, watery version of that vision. It was like being disappointed over and over again, like the Coyote always trying to catch the Road Runner. I got tired of smacking into a wall repeatedly.”

“I understand,” she said, and he knew she did. “But we’re usually our harshest critics.”

He was definitely hard on himself. But then again, his art professors hadn’t exactly wrapped him in fluffy clouds of praise either. “Are you your harshest critic?” Though he honestly couldn’t see what anyone could criticize about Piper Tucker, loyal daughter, lover of children and animals.