Chapter 22
March
Three Weeks Until The Wedding
“Okay, here it is.”
I raise a hand to my forehead, shielding my eyes against the harsh midday sunlight. The face of a building materializes in front of me. Trip’s smile shows every one of his pearly white teeth.
“It’s…a brownstone?” The late-nineteenth-century building is the color of sand, with a mahogany door. I’m standing on the third step of the concrete stairs leading to the front.
“It’s my house.” His grin stretches.
“You live in Brooklyn?” My eyes tip toward my forehead. “You would.”
He laughs. “What, you didn’t think I was one of those Upper East Side stiffs, did you?”
I step up to meet him at the top of the landing.
He’s wearing a simple white button-down with navy pants and a brown belt.
In the afternoon light, the brown of the belt matches that of his eyes—fresh earth and fall leaves.
I lean into him. The soft spring breeze blows my hair, but not a single one of his strands moves.
My mouth tips toward his, like there are magnets pulling them together.
I press my chest just close enough to feel that low buzzing between us.
I didn’t disobey Babcia, not technically.
Trip came to see me first. Despite our argument, her warning still gnaws at my brain.
While he tends to visit more frequently than every other week at this point, that’s still our agreement.
Outside of that, I’ll only use the summoning stone in true emergencies.
I lick my lips. “Are you going to invite me in?”
He shifts on his feet and mutters, “Pansy pot.” The puff of his lips from the p’s bring them that much closer to mine. Not close enough.
“What?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Look under the pansy pot.”
I turn and see a ceramic pot with purple pansies on the step next to us. There’s nothing on the ground from what I can see, so I tilt the pot on its side slightly. There, underneath the base, is a small silver key. I kick it out from under the pot and pick it up.
“Your home is worth millions of dollars and you leave your key on the front step?”
Trip shrugs. “Never had any issues.” He nods toward the door. “Ladies first.”
I slide the silver key into the knob and then the deadbolt. The door swings open with a long creak usually reserved for scary movies. I smile. Guess we are in a ghost story.
“Meant to grease those hinges at one point,” Trip mutters.
I’m unprepared for the inside. Maybe I expected sleek, modern, lots of chrome.
What greets us instead are warm, dark wood tones and Oriental rugs.
Furniture that actually looks comfortable and homey.
A coffered ceiling spans the length of the living room.
Tall windows with white gossamer curtains let in the buttery light from outside.
“It’s beautiful, Trip.”
“I’ve wanted to bring you here for a while.” He kicks at something on the floor.
I smile and stretch my arms wide. “Give me the tour.”
He leads me through the living room. The details are impeccable—the woodwork, the crown molding. It feels historic and preserved, but also like a home.
I run my finger along the fireplace mantel, and it comes away without a speck of dust. “Pretty clean for a place that’s uninhabited.”
“They still bring a cleaning service in every couple weeks. I don’t think the family knows what to do with the place at the moment.”
A shiver runs up my spine. When it’s just the two of us like this, it’s easy to forget Trip isn’t really here. That I’m standing alone in this room. Of course, there’s the whole inability to touch him, but by all other definitions, this is real.
We walk up the wide staircase to the second floor, and I run my hands along the smooth wood banister the entire way. Trip watches my every move, my every reaction, but there’s no need for pretense. I’m in awe of everything.
The second-floor landing is a hallway with two rooms across from one another.
We turn toward what appears to be some kind of library or study.
I glance behind us at the other room and see the foot of a giant king-size bed.
My cheeks heat and I snap my head back toward the library.
There’s a fireplace with two cozy armchairs facing it and a large mahogany desk at the center of the room.
I’m struck by how similar this is to the library at the Coldwell house.
If Trip is trying to differentiate himself from his family—his grandfather, in particular—it’s strangely telling that he’s designed his library to replicate the exact place the man spent so much of his time.
I do a lap of the room, then face Trip, leaning my butt on the edge of the desk. A small groan escapes from the back of his throat.
His eyes darken. “All the way.”
“What?” I tilt my head.
“I want to see you on my desk.”
I use my forearms to hoist myself up so I’m fully sitting, my feet dangling below.
Again, the cocktail of fear and thrill at being so reckless churns inside me.
Logic screams at me to stop, and yet, I don’t want to.
Trip moves closer, that dark look still in his eyes.
He braces his hands on the desk, just outside my hips.
I separate my legs to accommodate him, and he presses his lower body against mine.
There’s no friction there, only a throbbing with no release.
His head dips to my neck. “This is torture.” His voice is sandpaper. “I would take you right here if I could.”
My heart rate skyrockets. A small moan escapes my lips, and he raises his head, meeting my eyes.
“Come with me.”
He leads us through an adjoining bathroom that has the claw-foot tub of my dreams, about twice the size of mine.
Above it, a large stained-glass window paints the room in blue and green hues.
I indulge myself in visions of reading a book in the steaming bath, a glass of wine on the windowsill.
Of Trip climbing in and pressing kisses to my neck while our bodies tangle in the water.
In my mind, I see this exact scene overlaid with past visions of me and Carter—fantasies of us together in his beautiful home.
I tally all the ways in which this fantasy is so different from the one I wanted.
What scares me most is that in the recesses of my brain, I prefer this version—I want it.
To touch Trip’s body, to have him touch mine and spend days exploring each other in this brownstone.
We cross the threshold into the bedroom. It smells like him. That clean, fresh scent with a hint of salt. The ocean. My ocean. I could drown myself in this smell.
The room is sparsely decorated, centering on the king-size bed with crisp white linen sheets. Opposite the bed sits a tan leather couch with two picture windows above it. Outside, bare branches dance on the panes and the sunlight paints them gold. It takes my breath away.
Trip comes up behind me and leans his mouth toward my ear. “Dance with me.”
“Wha—” I turn to face him.
He places one broad palm on my hip. The soft buzzing there is almost hypnotic, like I could sink into it for eternity. It’s the slight heaviness after a glass of wine or the feeling of my limbs falling asleep. Trip holds his other hand out for me to take. I slip my palm into it.
Because we aren’t touching—not really—there’s no firm lead. But we anticipate each other’s movements and move in slow, languid circles. I tilt my head close to his chest and align my body with his. My front side is fuzzy, like soda fizz.
The lights flicker overhead for a second and then music starts. An old tune with a brass band and a baritone crooner. Something I’ve heard before but can’t quite place. I turn my head and see it—a record player in the corner.
I tilt my face up to Trip’s. “Show-off.”
“Hardly. That took a tremendous amount of effort.”
“You’ll get used to this haunting thing yet.” I smile, but the laugh dies in my throat. Again, the reality hits me. I’m dancing in this room with myself. Alone. Maybe I am losing my grip. It sparks another thought. “Is it bad for me to be here? What if someone finds me in your house?”
“They won’t. No one comes by. And the cleaning service is only on Wednesdays.”
I lean my head toward his chest again and try to ignore the loneliness settling in my stomach. “I wish this could be real.”
Trip stops moving. “It is, Elz.”
I place a palm against his cheek. “But you’re not really here.”
Then, as though to prove my point, I move my hand right through his face. He flinches.
“Maybe we need to stop kidding ourselves.” I hate the waver in my voice, but not as much as I hate the hurt in his eyes.
“Do you want to sit down?” He gestures toward the leather couch. The record scratches and the music stops.
“I think I should go.” My voice is a whisper. Tell me not to. Tell me not to.
“Please stay.”
My chest lightens with relief. “Well, since you said please.” I smile, but my voice cracks.
The leather of the couch is broken in and sinks when I sit on it. I expect Trip to take a seat next to me, but he kneels at my feet.
“What’s wrong?” I wish I could run my hands through his hair, could comfort him.
“I want this so badly it hurts.” He lifts his eyes to mine. “I’m going to find a way to fix this, Elz. We’ll find a way. And when we do, I want to start over. With you.”
There’s a knot in my throat and a tightness in my core. My voice comes out as a whisper. “What if you don’t remember me? Remember this? If we do break the curse and you wake up, there’s a chance—”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve been having the same worry.
” Trip sighs and his mouth slants. “Can’t say I have much experience with these kinds of things.
” He traces the back of my hand with his fingers.
“But I feel this in my soul, Elz. I have to hope it will stick once it’s connected to my body again, so I can finally do everything I want with you. ”
“I hope so too.” I drag my finger along the outline of his jaw. “What will you do? If you get your body back?”
“When.” His gaze locks on mine.
“Fine, when.”
He looks away with a pained stare. “I want to sleep next to you and run my hands through your hair. I want to smell you, and swim with you, and lick salt water from your skin. I want to make you pancakes in the morning just so you can put disgusting jam on them.” He laughs, but it’s a sad sound. “I want it so badly, I can’t stand it.”
He swallows, and I follow the movement from his collarbone to his jaw.
The want from earlier fills every crevice of my brain, like water threatening to break through the Carter-shaped dam I’ve contained it with.
My feelings for Trip lately have been blurry at best, but the emotion in his eyes, the furrow of his brow, throws them into stark clarity.
If my original objective in breaking the curse was to save Carter, I can’t deny that I’m now just as invested in giving Trip a second chance at life. At giving us a chance at…this.
“I want it too.” My chest puffs on an inhale. This is his opening. To take what he wants. To give me what I want.
He’s off the floor in an instant and in response, I lie lengthwise on the couch, pressed into the cushions.
Trip is above me, one of his knees between my thighs.
The sensation of seeing but not feeling plays cruel tricks on my mind.
I want to pull him down, feel his weight on top of me, move my body against his.
I want to flip him over and straddle him on this couch, then move to the office and have him lay me on the desk.
My hand reaches between my thighs, and I grind against the heel of my palm.
A deep growl escapes Trip’s throat. “God. Yes, Elz.”
My brain screams at me that this is ludicrous. Trip isn’t here, I can’t trust this. But for the first time, I don’t care about how this seems or how it looks. All I care about is chasing what I want, what I need. Choosing my own pleasure for once.
I’m not in control of the noises I make, the way I take myself just to the point of oblivion and hold myself there. Trip watches me with reverence, anchoring himself over me with the occasional utterance like “beautiful” or “shit, Elz.”
I buck my hips and he murmurs praise into my ear. “The sounds you make are enough for me to wish for a second life.”
A wave of pleasure crashes over me and my mind goes blank.