Chapter 18 - Dani #2
The engine rumbled to life, headlights cutting across the street, but my brain barely registered the direction he was driving.
All I could think about was the weight of his palm against my skin, the absentminded stroke of his thumb, the way every shift of the car made his grip tighten just enough to make me shiver.
The silence stretched as we drove, the low hum of the engine and the quiet rasp of his thumb against my skin filling the air.
My nerves should’ve been buzzing, but instead I felt .
. . steady. Grounded. And maybe just a little too distracted by the heat of his hand to keep pretending I wasn’t curious.
“Are you gonna tell me where we’re going?” I finally asked, glancing sideways at him.
His mouth curved, the corner of his lips tipping into that smug, little half-grin that had undone me more times than I could count. “No.”
I narrowed my eyes. “No?”
“Patience, kitten.” His gaze flicked from the road back to me, heavy with amusement. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
Easy for him to say when his hand was sliding up just high enough on my thigh to scramble all rational thought. By the time we turned down a side street on the edge of Rose City, my pulse was practically vibrating in my ears.
When he finally pulled to a stop, I blinked out the window, my brows knitting together. He must’ve taken a wrong turn because the scene ahead was nothing short of a horror movie—a sagging Victorian with peeling paint and cracked windows, its porch leaning under the weight of time.
Or maybe the weight of evil.
Where the fuck were we?
“Umm,” I said slowly. “Are you planning to murder me?”
Brooks laughed, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. I wasn't sure whether I wanted to smack or straddle him. Maybe both.
Before I could ask if this was some kind of weird prank, a figure emerged from the shadows. An older woman in a floor-length calico skirt, a white blouse buttoned to her chin, and a bonnet that looked like it had time-traveled straight off the Oregon Trail.
I startled, gripping the door handle. “Oh, fuck. It’s a ghost. Brooks, it’s a fucking ghost.”
He smiled, clearly delighted by my confusion. “No, it’s Janice.”
“Janice?” I repeated, staring as she waved primly at us, the hem of her skirt brushing the weeds. “Janice who?”
“Janice is the president of the Rose City Historical Society. Probably knows more about this city than anyone alive.” His eyes glittered with mischief as he reached for my hand. “I hired her to give us a private ghost tour.”
I blinked at him, then back at Janice, who, for all intents and purposes, looked ready to churn butter any second now.
“We’re doing a ghost tour?” I asked, my voice pitched somewhere between disbelief and awe.
Brooks only lifted one shoulder in a shrug, like this was the most obvious thing in the world.
“You love all that true-crime, murder-doc shit. I figured this was right up your alley.”
This man. My man.
My heart did a stupid little flip, the kind that left my chest feeling too tight and too warm at the same time.
Most guys might’ve gone for dinner or a movie or—gulp—bowling, but not Brooks.
No, he had gone straight for haunted history because he knew me.
And for all the jokes about how terrifying the house looked, for all the creep factor of Janice standing there like she’d just come off a wagon train, I couldn’t stop the smile tugging at my lips.
“You ready to bust some ghosts?” he asked.
I nodded, squeezing his hand back. “Are you? I know you’re not into spooky shit.”
“I’m into you,” he said, very matter-of-fact. “So, I think I’ll be okay.”
Fuck. It should’ve been illegal to be this turned on while staring down a bonneted woman.
“Don’t worry,” I whispered, leaning across the console. “I’ll protect you.”
His grin cracked wide, boyish and cocky all at once. “I’m counting on it.”
Ninety minutes later, we stumbled out of the creaking house, both of us laughing so hard, my stomach ached. Between the ghost stories and “cold spots” and Janice’s commitment to staying in character, it had all been so absurd, and at the same time, oddly perfect.
“Okay,” I wheezed, clutching his arm for balance. “You cannot tell me that door slamming shut by itself wasn’t creepy as hell.”
Brooks shook his head, trying—and failing—to look unbothered. “Just a draft, kitten. Old houses creak. That’s all it was.”
“Uh-huh,” I teased, narrowing my eyes. “Then why were you the one clutching my jacket like your life depended on it?”
“I was making sure you didn’t run screaming out the door.” His grin tugged wider, smug and playful. “You’re welcome.”
I rolled my eyes, but the warmth in my chest betrayed me.
We were ridiculous, teasing each other like teenagers after prom, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so light.
His laugh lingered, low and rough, like it was meant for me alone.
And that made my chest squeeze more than any ghost story or creaking floorboard ever could.
Janice gave us a knowing smile as she packed up her lantern and historical pamphlets, muttering something about young love and “spirits approving.”
“I have to give it you,” I said, my hand sliding easily into his, our fingers lacing like we’d been doing it for years. “Best first date ever.”
Brooks’s grin softened, losing some of its cocky edges, and for a moment we just stood there under the creaking oak, his thumb sweeping lazy circles over my knuckles. The night air felt charged, like the city itself was holding its breath.
Then it happened.
A tiny flutter low in my belly, like butterfly wings brushing from the inside out. I gasped and froze, my free hand flying instinctively to my stomach.
His eyes snapped to mine. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“I think she just—” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Oh my god, Brooks.”
I grabbed his hand and pressed it flat against me, holding it there, waiting, holding my breath, until finally—
Another flutter, stronger this time.
Our baby girl.
Brooks went utterly still. His eyes widened, then shimmered with something so raw it knocked the breath out of me. “Holy shit,” he whispered reverently. “I felt her, Dani.”
Tears stung at the corners of my eyes, hot and uninvited. I laughed through them anyway, the sound shaky and full. “Guess she likes spooky ghost shit, too.”
Brooks bent down, pressing his forehead to mine, his palm still anchored over the life growing inside me.
“Best first date ever,” he murmured back.