A Date With the Other Side (23 page)

Only his house was full of T-shirt-wearing gawkers and Shelby looking like she’d eaten week-old fish. Even from the driveway, her skin looked an alarming shade of green, somewhat like mint chocolate chip ice cream, without the chips.

“Shelby looks upset,” Amanda said, her voice lazy and knowing.

She did. Boston wanted to shove everyone aside, walk up those stairs, take Shelby in his arms, and claim her as his with a kiss in front of all those people.

He wasn’t so totally far gone as to actually do that, though.

Instead, he just nodded to the people standing around and offered a forced smile. Shelby was sidling behind a middle-aged man who looked to be hiding a beach ball under his shirt. While Boston wasn’t sure what to say to her, he didn’t want her avoiding him.

So he called to her. “Shelby, can I speak to you, please?”

Her green cheeks pinkened, so she looked a bit like peppermint. She’d worn an incredibly oversized orange T-shirt that said DICK’S HARDWARE, which struck Boston as redundant, but that she’d probably worn solely for the coverage. Nothing above the elbows was showing, and he couldn’t even get a good shot of her cute little backside with that thing hanging down over her dingy gray shorts. Dirty gym shoes were on her feet, no socks, and Boston read her meaning loud and clear.

She didn’t want any attention from him.

Well, she could be wearing head-to-toe multilayered fleece and he’d still be turned on.

Especially since he’d seen her hair down over her naked shoulders and breasts.

“Yes?” she asked, her little chin jutting out toward him, her eyes wary but determined.

“What do you want me to do? Just go into the house and stand there? Sing maybe, or play the piano?” He tried to tease a smile out of her.

No smile, but she loosened up, shoulders relaxing, hands letting go of the hem of her shirt. “You can just do whatever you normally do. Work or read or eat, whatever. Thank you for doing this, I know it’s uncomfortable for you.”

“No problem.” He couldn’t resist squeezing her hand a little, but she pulled it right back. “Listen, Shelby, we need to talk.”

Her eyes snapped shut for a split second, and she shook her head just slightly before blowing a big breath of air out, scattering the loose hair over her forehead. “I know we do.”

“Can you come back after the tour?”

“Sure.” She nodded resolutely “We need to clear the air about some things.”

It had an ominous sound that he didn’t understand or like. Confusion mixed with fear, which warred with the euphoria that he had found a woman he could really fall in love with, until he thought programming his cell phone made more sense than the thoughts running around his head.

Boston opened the door, walked in, and just managed to duck in time when a plate came flying at his head.

Shelby only saw a flash of white so past Boston’s shoulder before it collided with the door, in an explosion of shattering shards. Jumping back with a shriek, she bumped into the soft stomach of the woman standing behind her.

“Show’s on,” Boston said wryly, moving into the foyer with total confidence, like he wasn’t the least bit scared.

Which she had to admit was appealing. If he had knocked the tour-goers down in an attempt to escape the house, she didn’t think she’d be in love with him.

Which she was. In love with him, darn it.

Miserable and irrationally annoyed that exciting things seemed to happen only when
he
was around, Shelby took a tentative step in behind him.

Boston’s hand shoved her head down right as another plate came spinning past. Shelby caught a glimpse of Scarlett’s drapery dress go flying by from her bent-over position.

“Hey, those are Gran’s limited-edition
Gone With the Wind
plates! She’s not going to be real happy.”

But Boston laughed. “Frankly, Shelby, I don’t think they give a damn.”

“Who’s they?” She was afraid to stand up, and grabbed on to the belt loops of Boston’s black pants for leverage.

A quick glance back showed half a dozen people crammed into the doorway watching, more in the windows of the parlor.

“I’m guessing it’s Rachel.”

All the lights came blasting on, pouring from the chandelier, scattered lamps, and from the fixture at the top of the stairs.

Shelby inched closer to Boston’s butt.

Bless his heart., he took pity on her, and put an arm around her, his suit jacket obscuring some of her view. Which could be a bad thing if Rachel winged a plate at her, but a good thing if an entity decided to show itself. She could do without seeing any dead people until she was good and dead herself.

“Nice to see you again, Rachel.” Boston spoke like he was at a corporate lunch. “You remember Shelby? She’s stopped by to visit.”

Shelby smacked Boston’s leg. She didn’t want to be dragged into this. She’d never had a problem with Rachel until he’d shown up.

“Stand up, love,” he said, urging her with his hand.

Shocked from the endearment, which tripped off his lips so casually and sweetly, Shelby stood up and gaped at him. He just smiled and touched the tip of her nose.

“I want to kiss that expression right off your face,” he said.

This time, when Rhett Embraces Scarlett came down off the plate rack above the curio cabinet, Shelby saw it. Sticking her hand up, she shielded the side of Boston’s face and let out a yelp when the china crashed into her.

Her hand stung, and tears popped into her eyes. Boston’s eyes went wide, then furious. He grabbed her hand, and cursed at the blood that flowed from a two-inch-long gash.

“Alright, Rachel, that’s not funny!” He glared around the foyer. “If you have something to say, get your dead self out here and say it, but you cannot hurt Shelby ever again, understand me?”

Shelby didn’t think it was such a hot idea to be issuing commands to psychotic ghosts, and she started inching toward the front door, clutching her bleeding hand in her T-shirt. Boston stilled her, pulling her against his hard side, his muscles bunched as if bracing for a fight.

Don’t let Rachel appear, just don’t…

Squeezing her eyes shut, Shelby tried to pretend she didn’t hear the footsteps in the kitchen, coming toward them, loud and ominous. Click, click, click, they grew closer and closer, and Shelby’s heart beat so fast she couldn’t catch her breath. With more courage than she’d known she possessed, she forced her eyes open.

And saw Amanda standing in the kitchen doorway, wearing high heels and a tangerine orange strapless sundress.

“Amanda, what are you doing?” Boston asked, his fist relaxing.

“I couldn’t see a damn thing.” She shot a glare at the women stuffed into the front door frame. “So I came around the back.”

While Shelby remembered to breathe again, Amanda assessed the situation. “I don’t see anything going on.”

The God As My Witness plate hurled at Amanda. She shifted and watched it crash into the rose-colored wall. “Well, someone’s not getting any,” she remarked.

“How many plates are there?” Boston asked, glancing to the rack. “Jesus, there’s a ton of them.”

“It was a long movie.” Shelby strove for some of Amanda and Boston’s nonchalance, but found she didn’t have a whole lot. “And I’m not waiting around for the whole thing.”

Boston tried to pull her T-shirt off her injured hand, but Shelby held it tight. She wasn’t crazy about the sight of blood, even a little.

“I’ll drive you to the ER for stitches, Shelby.”

The very thought made her woozy. “I don’t need stitches. We need to save the plates.”

One-handed, she started to drag a dining room chair over to the plate rack.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Amanda, you get the plates while I take Shelby to the hospital.”

“Do what?” Obviously the thought of any task other than primping herself baffled Amanda. She was staring at the chair blankly.

Shelby just rolled her eyes and climbed onto the chair, keeping her head tucked behind her uninjured arm. In a minute she had all the plates down, stacked in Boston’s hands. The practical action made her feel less hysterical.

“Put them in the cabinet.” Shelby pointed to the mahogany hutch in the dining room.

While Boston secured the plates, Shelby peeled her T-shirt back, hoping to convince herself it was just a scratch and she didn’t need to go to the ER. The sight of red blood smeared all over her hand greeted her, and she became aware of how wet and sticky it was.

The room tilted, her mouth went hot, her breathing desperate. “Oh, God.”

Boston caught her just in time before she hit the floor. She didn’t faint, but came awful close, her vision blurring, everything going black for a split second. Things were just starting to clear when Boston lifted her off the ground into his arms, which made her dizzy all over again.

But there was something comforting in being carried, even as she sucked in gobs of air to try and still her nauseous stomach. Shelby wasn’t a woman people cosseted, not even as a kid. To have Boston holding her tenderly like she was Amanda-skinny, whispering soft little words of encouragement and distress, was a good feeling.

She settled against the crisp white dress shirt covering his chest and was pleasantly distracted by his arm under her backside. Shelby sighed and let her eyes roll closed.

Boston barked for the gawkers to get out of the way, and then he was settling her in his car.

“I’m fine,” she protested, trying not to slide down off the leather passenger seat. “I just don’t like blood.”

“You need stitches,” he said in a voice that brooked no arguments, his jaw locked.

“But the tour… those people…”

“Can all go to hell.”

Easy for him to say. He didn’t need those people to eat.

As he backed out the driveway, he softened his tone. “Those people will probably still be there when we get back. They got exactly what they wanted—a ghost—and it will be all over town in half an hour.”

He was right, and she should be thrilled. But all she wanted to do was lean her head against the window and try not to gag.

Boston sat in the chair in the ER cubicle and watched Shelby resting on the bed, eyes closed, cheeks pale. The doctor had given her six stitches, assuring them it was a minor cut, but that the fleshy part of the hand bleeds a lot.

Boston had yet to find a part of the body that didn’t bleed a lot when sliced, but Shelby had seemed reassured. They were waiting for the discharge papers from the nurse, and Boston was content just to watch Shelby lying there. He’d ditched his suit jacket and tie in the car before coming in, and he’d rolled his sleeves up, but he still felt overdressed next to Shelby and her grubby dig-in-the-dirt outfit.

Yet he thought she was beautiful. And he was in love with her.

It was all there, clearly before him. Nothing else could explain the feeling in his chest when he’d seen Shelby clawing to stay conscious, blood running down her wrist in red rivulets. He’d experienced blind panic. The primitive urge to protect. He would have taken on a whole houseful of spirits, if need be.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. The last thing in the world he’d expected when he’d been forced figuratively kicking and screaming to Cuttersville was to fall in love. But there it was, and he had indigestion.

Having never expected to ever even fall in love, he was unprepared to deal with the fact that he not only had fallen in love, but had done it with the wrong woman. Or more accurately, he was the wrong man for her. He had nothing to offer Shelby Tucker that she valued.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she gave him a weak smile. “I’m a total wimp, aren’t I?”

“Nah. And you saved the
Gone With the Wind
limited-edition plates. Not many people can say that.”

Shelby laughed, propped on her side. “It’s only eight o’clock and I feel like going to bed.”

“So do I.” He didn’t even try and hide the innuendo in his voice. He just let his lust hang out there for her to see and do whatever she wanted with it.

She sighed. “We can’t.”

“I’ll be gentle,” he promised, teasing a little, his heart growing heavy. She was only saying what he already knew. That they needed to stop before it got worse, before one of them got seriously hurt. Before he did something stupid like try and drag Shelby off to Chicago or promise that he’d stay in Cuttersville.

Neither one of them could make that sacrifice, and it was better to cut things off now.

Except the thought of that made him unaccountably sad.

“You know what I mean.” Shelby sat up and he moved to help her. She let him touch her, hold her hand, her body soft and pliant, his. She leaned toward him, allowed him ownership. But her words said the opposite. “Last night was it, Boston. I can’t have a casual affair. I thought I could, and I certainly don’t regret last night, but I can’t do it again. We can’t… I’m really sorry.”

So was he. But she was being honest, like he’d been honest the night before about going back to Chicago. He should have had the sense to know Shelby wouldn’t be comfortable with that kind of temporary arrangement.

He should have had the sense to stay the hell away from her in the first place.

He should have quit Samson before agreeing to come to this little dot of nothing.

Because now when he left, he was going to leave a golf-ball-size piece of his heart in Cuttersville.

He stroked her hand. “I’m sorry too.” More than she could ever understand.

Her gaze locked with his for a brief second, then skittered away.

No one was at the White House except Amanda and Brady when he returned from dropping Shelby off at her grandmother’s.

“Where’s the tour?” he asked as he walked up onto the porch.

Amanda was sitting sideways on the swing, sundress tucked around her legs stretched out in front of her. A whole hell of a lot of thigh was showing, and her efforts at modesty had only accentuated her hips and waist, the soft orange fabric clinging to her body. It didn’t take a genius to figure out exactly why Brady was hanging around.

Brady was sprawled across the floor, and his grin indicated to Boston the view from below was even better.