18
Tristan
Demi often comes home with canvas tote bags full of things.
Sometimes they’re items she brought with her from home to work, sometimes they’re things she found shopping at the local market or vintage store, and sometimes it’s groceries and household necessities.
I like watching her unpack those bags at the end of the day because it’s like a little glimpse into her internal world.
I lean against the sink with my arms crossed as I watch her empty the bags out on the kitchen table. She brought home three full totes today, and she seems pretty pleased with her finds, which I like.
I like it when she’s happy.
First, she pulls out a stack of books and a handful of taper candles, followed by a few bundles of herbs tied with ribbon.
“I told the Coven about you today,” she says. Demi looks up from the table, meeting my gaze with a smile. Her hair hangs long and loose and golden over one shoulder. I can’t stop watching the way the ends graze her waist, or the way her blue jeans curl around her hips like a second skin.
“The Coven?”
“My aunts and sister.”
“Ah. What did you tell them?” I ask. The idea that she talked about me to the people closest to her is hard for me to wrap my head around.
I’ve been nothing but a memory for so long that I forgot what it was like to be considered, to be thought of.
And that it’s her ?thinking of me…it’s almost too much.
“I told them that you took care of me when I was sick. They seemed kind of impressed.”
Truthfully, I wish I could have done more, taken better care of her. If I were alive, nothing could have held me back from bringing her to a doctor to get some real help. Still, it feels nice that what little I did made her feel better.
“They also sent me home with this,” Demi says, holding up a book that looks to be at least a few centuries old. “Apparently, there are a few chapters on ghosts in there that they think might be helpful to us.”
“Us?” I say, tasting the word on my tongue, savoring it.
Demi pauses and looks at me, and for the first time since I met her, she looks a little shy. It’s fleeting, but enough to warm me up. It’s adorable, actually.
Our eyes meet and lock, and without warning, the space between us feels too far, the air too heavy.
I want to know what Demi thinks when she looks at me.
The glimmer in her gaze makes me think she likes what she sees, but that could also be the hope in me, and in my experience, hope can be a dangerous liar.
Still, we’re locked in this moment together.
Demi drags her teeth over her bottom lip, and I wonder how any man could ever look away from a gesture like that.
Not me. Not when her mouth is glossy and pink.
Not when her lips are pillow-soft. Not when I imagine those teeth sinking into her lip as a whimper of pleasure keens from her pretty throat .
Jesus Christ.
Demi blinks and inhales sharply with a shake of her head. “Sorry, what?”
So she was just as lost in the moment as I was, after all.
“Um,” I stammer, clearing my throat. “Something about the book? Chapters about ghosts.”
“Right!” She looks down at the book, opening the cover and flipping through the pages with the care of someone who understands the value of antiques. She would, of course, given her profession. “The aunts seem to think it’s not very common for the living to see and interact with ghosts.”
“This is the first time it’s happened to me.”
“Yeah, but that’s not necessarily a baseline for evidence, considering you haven’t actually left the house in, what? Fifty years?”
“Close.”
“So, it’s not like you’ve had the chance to meet people. To test this theory.”
I smirk. “You’re talking about it like science, but you were the one who said it’s not about science. That it’s about magic.”
She sets the book down and crosses her arms under her breasts, mirroring my stance but looking so much better than I do.
“I did say that, didn’t I?”
“You did.” ????????“Well, I’m probably right, then.”
I can’t help the laugh that comes out of me, and the smile that lights her face when she hears it is world-brightening.
She’s still grinning as she returns her focus to the bag and rummages through it, pulling out two new candles and a few bundles of dried herbs, each tied off with a velvet green ribbon.
More witchcraft from her aunts, no doubt.
Demi sets the empty bag aside and moves on to the next. A stack of books with colorful spines. She pats the top of the pile.
“More smut for our collection,” she says.
Our collection.
The final bag is full of groceries. Some produce, a few cans of Cherry Coke, some chicken and ground turkey, dried pasta, and rice. Then she pulls out a whole pie and a pint of cinnamon ice cream.
She catches the way I’m eyeing the pie and smiles. “Did you know that when you’re an adult with adult money, you can just buy a whole pie for yourself just because you want to?”
“Incredible.”
I can smell the pie through its quaint, bespoke little box: apple, cinnamon, the perfect pastry scent of the crust.
“Is it still warm?” I ask.
“It sure is, handsome,” she says, waggling her eyebrows.
Handsome.
“It’s from the bakery down the block from my shop,” she continues, as if the term of endearment wasn’t meant to disarm me completely. Here I am, disarmed. “The owner pulled it right out of the oven for me.”
I watch as she goes through the motions of putting her groceries away, all except the pie and the ice cream. She grabs a small floral plate, a fork, and a spoon, then heads back to the kitchen table and sits down .
I follow, sitting across from her, resisting the urge to stare at her with my chin in my hands.
“The other thing about being an adult is that you can have pie for dinner,” she said.
She opens the box, and a little puff of steam releases into the air between us. It smells so good, reminding me of childhood autumns in this very house.
There are countless things I miss about being alive, and food is within the top three.
I miss experiencing new flavors and old flavors that kindle memories.
I miss the act of eating, of sharing a meal with someone, and feeling full and happy at the end.
I miss the textures of food in my mouth and the taste on my tongue.
The living take the simple things for granted. They have no idea how deeply they will one day miss the things they overlook in their day-to-day lives. Food and drink. Taste and touch. Being seen. Being known .
Demi scoops a slice of pie onto her plate. The crust looks crisp, and the apple and butter filling is overflowing from the inside out. She opens the ice cream container and sticks her spoon in with gusto, then drops a healthy glob onto her pie.
My brain short-circuits when the spoon goes into Demi’s mouth.
Her lips curve around the metal; it slides into her mouth, her cheeks hollowing out a little as she savors the ice cream, then she slowly pulls the spoon back out. So fucking slowly. There’s one thin stripe of ice cream left in the dip of the spoon. She licks it clean.
I have to hold myself back from groaning out loud.
Finally, she looks across the table at me, and whatever she sees on my face makes her pause. She licks her lips, and her pretty blue eyes darken as her pupils expand.
“Do you like that?” I ask.
She blinks, her cheeks going a bit rosy. “What?”
“The, uh,” I clear my throat. “The ice cream. Is it good?”
“Oh…yeah. It’s really good,” she replies, once again shaking her head as if to clear it. “I’d offer you some, but...” Demi gestures broadly, indicating my general ghostliness.
“I miss food,” I say.
I miss a lot of things.
“I feel rude eating in front of you like this.”
“No!” I blurt, too eager, too desperate, but I can’t bear the thought of her leaving the room, not right now when she looks so pretty, and there’s nothing more that I want than to watch her do that thing with the ice cream spoon again.
“No, it’s kind of like I’m living vicariously through you if I … watch you eat.”
She shrugs, like what I said makes perfect sense, even though I’m not so sure it does. I just said it so she wouldn’t leave, so I could sit here and keep staring at her mouth.
With the fork, Demi assembles an excellent bite. Some crust, some filling, a dollop of ice cream. It balances on the edge of the tines as she points it toward me.
“In that case, cheers,” she says, bringing the fork to her lips and taking a bite. Her eyes roll in a pantomime of pleasure, and she gives a little moan of satisfaction. “Oh, hell yeah.”
I chuckle. “As good as it looks?”
“Better,” she says .
“Can you describe it for me?”
Demi tilts her head. “Describe it?”
“Yeah,” I say, leaning forward with my elbows on the table. “Can you tell me how it tastes?”
“Okay, let’s see…” She gives me a playful smile and scoops another bit onto her fork, sliding it into her mouth. I watch the way her jaw tenses as she chews, the way her throat works as she swallows, the glisten on her lips. “The best part is the hot and cold combo. Warm pie, cold ice cream.”
I can almost feel it myself as the memory of pie à la mode comes back to me.
“Keep going,” I say.
She closes her eyes, thinking, savoring.
“The crust is crisp and flaky. Tastes like butter and salt.” She opens her eyes and looks at me. “Do you like sweet and savory together?”
“I did, ” I reply with a gentle smile.
“Right. Sorry.” Demi pulls a faux-cringe expression and assembles another bite.
With her eyes closed again, she continues after finishing her mouthful. “The apples are sweet and tart, with a good amount of cinnamon, which I love.”
“Is the ice cream cinnamon, too?” I know it is. I can read. But I like hearing her talk.
“Yep. Cinnamon feels like the ‘Ber months to me.”
“‘Ber months?”
“September, October, November, December. The ‘Ber months.”
Goddamn it, she can be cute.
“Got it,” I say with a grin .
I watch her take several more bites until all that’s left on her plate is the crust edge and a few leftover splatters of filling and ice cream. Picking up the crust edge with her fingers, she says, “This might be a controversial opinion, but this is my favorite part of the pie.”
“It’s not only controversial, it’s also wrong,” I say.
Her eyes widen at me in amusement and mock offense. “Tristan Beaumont, I am never ?wrong.”
God, I love it when she says my name.
“Well, you’re wrong about this, Demi St. James,” I say. “The filling is the best part.”
She shakes her head, swirling the crust edge in the remnants of filling and ice cream on her plate. “Just know I’m judging you really hard for your incorrect opinion on this.”
“Right back at you,” I say.
She finishes off the crust, then slips the tip of her index finger into her mouth, sucking away a crumb left behind. Every coherent thought I’ve ever had makes a hasty exit from my brain: all wit, all wisdom, gone. I am rendered useless by the sight of her lips pursing around her finger.
The corner of her mouth curls up in a smirk, and when I finally tear my gaze away from her lips, I find that her eyes carry a swirl of heat, and she’s got one eyebrow arched in a knowing, mischievous way.
It’s then that I realize she sucked on her finger like that on purpose, that she knew exactly ?what the fuck she was doing, and she knew exactly ?how it would make me react .
I’m not sure whether to be embarrassed for being so transparent or to let a little hope in at the thought of Demi St. James flirting with me.