Chapter 4 #2
Let me test that theory. I toss the orange juice carton at him. He throws his hands out, but it moves right through him and hits the TV stand with a splat, dripping liquid down the console. Shit. Not my best idea.
“Hey! Watch it!” He inspects the front of his shirt. “This is Brioni.”
“Careful, Trip. Your rich boy is showing.” I cross my arms.
He rolls his eyes. “At least I’m not wearing…what exactly is that?”
I look down at myself and want to melt into the floor.
But I won’t let him see me sweat. “For your information, this is my at-home uniform.” In other words, a simple men’s dress shirt that hangs to my knees.
Only a dress shirt. Well, and boy-short underwear underneath.
I didn’t expect to see anyone this morning.
“It’s very…” His cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink before he furrows his brows. “But you’ve messed up the starch of the collar. Here let me—” He stretches his hand out and takes a step toward me.
Kotka leaps from her perch in the kitchen and hisses at him.
“I’m sorry.” He points a finger at her. “Can that thing see me?”
“That thing is a cat. Or did you miss that day in preschool?” But honestly, I’m wondering the same thing. Perhaps that explains why the fluff-ball is always staring at things that aren’t there.
Kotka starts batting at him with her paw and Trip hops from foot to foot, dodging her tiny swats. When she fails to get anything in her claws, she makes a game of it and hops up on the console, leaping directly through his body.
Trip shudders. “Foul creature.”
Dog person, then. Got it.
He nods toward the phone still clutched in my hand. “So, what did my cousin want?”
“Oh. Well.” It’s such a normal conversation starter for an entirely abnormal situation. “Carter’s asked me to escort Sabrina around to various wedding events and there’s—”
Trip snorts. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I’m helping her acclimate to the city and—”
“And you said yes? Are you his friend or his personal assistant?”
I roll my eyes. “Carter just needs help with these kinds of things, okay? I’m being a good friend.”
“Or a doormat.”
“Excuse me?” I put my hands on my hips.
“Why do you let him push you around so much?” Trip’s eyes dance in the light and he purses his lips.
My back stiffens. I’m not used to my loyalty being treated like a weakness. “He’s my friend. I owe it to him to build a relationship with his”—I stumble on the words future wife—“with Sabrina. He’d do the same for me.”
“Would he? Or are you pining after him?”
“I’m not pining.”
He makes a humming sound, which unfortunately draws my attention to his immaculate throat.
“It doesn’t suit you. You’re more formidable when armed.” He waves a hand toward me.
I scoff. “You mean with a letter opener or an orange juice carton.”
“I mean with your sharp mouth.” His eyes dart to my lips.
I inhale and hold my breath, the silence stretching between us.
Trip finally breaks it. “You never answered my question.”
“What question?” My head feels dizzy. Conversations with this man are like a Coney Island ride.
“Do you plan to follow through with your scheme to dismantle Carter’s wedding? Getting close to the bride would certainly provide an excellent opportunity.”
I hadn’t even thought of that. But Trip is giving me entirely too much credit.
I’m not the type of person who could break up a wedding.
The version of myself who stormed around the Coldwell library was voicing her darkest, most desperate thoughts.
Two-months-removed, sober Libby can’t imagine hurting her best friend. I want him to be happy.
“Do you think this wedding is truly what he wants?” I’m avoiding Trip’s question again, but everything rides on this.
His mouth turns downward and he shrugs. “I’m not sure.”
I sigh. “I don’t think I could hurt him.”
Maybe some time with Sabrina will give me a sense of if they’re happy together, if there are any cracks in the foundation. If rushing into this marriage after only four months is wise. I’d be looking out purely for Carter’s best interests, of course. Trip’s intentions, however, are still a mystery.
I tilt my head. “Why do you care so much, by the way? You don’t know how he feels about this wedding. Carter never talks about you. Where do you get off telling me—his best friend—what he needs?”
Trip cants his head. “Carter really never mentions me?”
“Nope.” Sure, once or twice, but I don’t need to give Trip the satisfaction.
He drags his fingers down the shorter hair at the base of his neck. “I get it, I guess. We were practically brothers as kids, but”—he shrugs and shakes his head—“well, things changed. The details aren’t really important. Still, I didn’t realize he’d erased me so completely.”
The hurt in his voice softens something in my chest. But my question still lingers. “So why does it matter to you who Carter marries?”
Clearing his throat, he stares at the floor for a minute. He kicks his pristine shoe at a piece of fluff on my carpet to no avail. “What if I told you it has to do with this—the way that I am?”
“Your Casper-ness?”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m not a ghost.”
“Oh really? You seem pretty ghosty to me.”
“No.” Again, that deep, commanding baritone. “Because I’m not dead.”
“Uh-huh. I meet a lot of people who aren’t in solid form.”
“This”—he waves his hands over his torso—“isn’t my body. I know because I’ve seen it.” He, if possible for a ghost, pales. “Hooked up to a bunch of machines at Mount Sinai Hospital.”
I blink. “Wha—”
“A few months ago, there was an accident. I’d rather not get into it.
” He shudders. “But one minute I was alive and the next thing I knew I was like this, looking down at my body in a hospital bed. Nonresponsive, yes. But very much alive.” He moves closer, towering over me. “And I plan to cling to that life.”
“What kind of accident?” I breathe.
“Agree to help me get my life back, and I’ll tell you.”
He extends a broad palm toward mine as though to close a business deal.
His head bends toward me, close enough that we would share the same air if he were breathing.
I meet his eyes, and while they’re a different color, they’re the same shape as Carter’s.
His skin is bronzed, but freckles still paint the bridge of his nose. This man is a Coldwell.
“It was a taxi, wasn’t it?” I search the deep amber of his eyes. “The curse?”
“You know about the curse?” His voice is a whisper.
“Yes.” I dig my nails into my palms. “Carter’s father and uncle were killed in an accident. Was that…your father?”
The color rising to his cheeks is all the confirmation I need.
“Does Carter’s wedding have something to do with the curse?”
“Maybe.” The word is no louder than a sigh.
“How?” I rise up on my toes, maintaining eye contact. Baiting him to make the next move in this standoff between us. Our faces nearly overlap.
He brings a hand toward my face. “Those details aren’t especially relevant for you, my dear.”
I stiffen. “Fine. I thought you were asking for my help.”
“I am. I need you, Elz.”
Centimeters, no, millimeters separate us. My pulse quickens, but I won’t be distracted from the fact that this stranger is making demands of me. “And I need more information, John.”
He steps away, spine straightening. “Don’t call me that.”
“What? It’s your name, isn’t it?”
“It’s my grandfather’s name.” His jaw tenses. “In my opinion, the fewer similarities between us, the better.”
“Don’t like being a Coldwell?”
“Not particularly.” He scrunches his nose, as though smelling something rotten. But then the light in his eyes shifts. “What if I made you a deal? You help me make sure this wedding goes off without a hitch, and I’ll give you anything you want.”
I laugh directly in his face. “Anything I want?” I want Carter. I want the life I’ve dreamt of. “And what could a ghost possibly give me?”
He rolls his eyes. “I prefer the term ‘astral projection,’ thank you. And when I’m back to my normal self—”
“You make it sound like you’re recovering from the common cold.”
He spreads his hands wide. “What couldn’t I give you? I have money, connections. You say the word, Elzbieta Lakoski, and it’s yours.”
“So more like a genie than a ghost.”
He rolls his eyes. “Not a ghost.”
I study him. Beneath that smooth facade is a man who is practically begging me to help him. Offering me anything I want in return. He may present as calm, but he is most certainly desperate.
I look away and study the floor. “I’m not sure.”
“Just consider my offer. Okay?” Trip shrugs and sticks his hands in his pockets.
“Okay. And how do I—contact you? If I make a decision?”
He smiles but continues to retreat. “That’s the thing about ghosts, we’re hard to get rid of.”
“I thought you weren’t a—”
But he’s gone. It’s just me and Kotka in my small apartment.