Hellsinger 01 - Fish and Ghosts (P) (MM) (34 page)

“Yeah, you love me.” Wolf grinned. He was being silly, but he didn’t care. If anything, for the first time in his life, he finally understood the insanity his mother seemed to thrive in. It was a grabbing of his gums and brain in the tight grip of
happy
. “Go pee. The romance between us is just killing me.”

“Don’t… break anything,” Tristan warned him, sliding away from Wolf’s embrace. “I’ll be right back.”

“It’s a desk. What can I break?” He watched Tristan disappear into the side hallway, then looked down when he heard a thumping near his feet. Boris’s eyes slit open wide enough for Wolf to imagine the dog was rolling his eyes at him, just like his master did a few seconds ago. “Furball, you with us on this madcap adventure into eternity?”

If a long-suffering sigh was any indication of agreement, then the wolfhound was going to be their bosom companion until the sun burned from the sky.

The door creaked open and Wolf looked up, but no one appeared on the threshold. A second later, a small puddle appeared on the lobby floor, then another a few inches away, until a clear path of wet footprints made their way to the curved desk.

A sunbeam filtered down from one of the high windows, and the shadows around it caught on the partially formed woman’s face, her wide eyes bruised with fatigue. Her hands trembled when she removed the lace cap from her upswept hair, the loose strands about her face dripping from a storm raging somewhere in the past.

“Pardon me, sir,” she murmured, keeping her eyes partially down. “But I’m here about the cook’s job. I would have gone around to the servants’ door, but I couldn’t find one marked. I’ve got no references, as the Lady turned me out for what the Lord was doing, but—”

“It’s okay,” Wolf interrupted. “We don’t need references. I don’t know what Tristan pays you, but you’re hired. Um… kitchens are over that way. Through the door and down the hall. If there’s anything in the fridge, toss it out. Chances are something my mother made is plotting to take over the universe.”

The ghost gave him a curious look, then pointed toward the rear of the manor. “That way, sir?”

“Yeah, sure.” Wolf winced. “You probably have no idea what a fridge is.”

“No, sir, but I’ll do my best.” Her fading voice lightly mocked Wolf as she headed off to her duties, leaving a trail of damp footprints behind to show she’d been there.

“It’s all we can do, cupcake,” he murmured as she wisped out of his sight. “Now, where the hell did Mara put that mop?”

T
RISTAN
HAD
never imagined seeing water on the lobby floor would make him happy. Even better was the view of Wolf’s ass as he bent over to wipe away the last of the footprints left behind by his Victorian London cook. Boris was up and out from behind the reception area, trailing after Wolf as he moved about the lobby.

Any thoughts of drawing that afternoon crept away under the heat of the need to strip his lover down and swallow as much of Wolf as he could get into his mouth. He was about to suggest that when Wolf looked up and winked at him.

“Your cook’s here,” Wolf growled at him with his whiskey-tough voice. “I told her she could clean out the fridge, but she looked at me funny. I guess they don’t have Maytag where she comes from.”

“No, not so much,” Tristan chuckled. “Hopefully, she won’t figure out what you were talking about. I think your mom’s leftover casserole has started to summon forth Zuul. We might have to just set the whole thing on fire.”

“I love that you know Zuul.” Wolf stood and wiped his damp hands on his jeans. “The fire will come in handy for the marshmallow man who’ll be by later. I saw the chocolate and graham crackers up in your apartment. We can make a night of it.”

“I was hoping to make an afternoon of it. If you want to lock the front door, I want to head up and start a pot of spaghetti sauce.” Tristan cocked his head and tried to look as sexy as he could. He didn’t have much experience at it, but Wolf didn’t seem to mind. “It can simmer in the Crock-Pot for a few hours, and—”

“Hell, it can simmer overnight if you want, Pryce.” Wolf hooked his fingers into Tristan’s waistband and pulled him in for a kiss. “But yeah, I think I can come up with something for us to do until the sauce is done.”

Their mouths touched, a light sizzling brush of their lips, and Tristan fought not to let himself fall into Wolf’s kiss. The last thing he needed was to have sex on the lobby floor. Not when there was a comfortable bed waiting for them. Pulling away, he shook his head at Wolf.

“Nope, not doing this. The last time I let you con me into someplace other than the bedroom, I ended up with carpet burns on my ass.”

“I kissed and made them better.”

“You kissed and made some more,” Tristan accused. “Lock the door and meet me upstairs.”

He was almost to the first landing when Wolf called out to him. “Hey, Tris!”

“What?” Bending over the railing, he yelled back, feeling stupidly daring for screaming across the lobby. After years of being… sedate, it felt good to let loose.

“How about when the spaghetti is done… simmering, we invite Mara to eat with us. She’s got to be sick of her own cooking, right?” Wolf leaned back, staring up at him with his arrogant smirk. “Don’t you think she gets lonely at dinner-time?”

He couldn’t stop the laughter burbling up inside of him, and a fit of giggles broke free from his belly, the sound clearly insulting Wolf down below. It was going to break Wolf’s heart to realize he’d steeped in the Grange’s stew even before Winifred’s arrival. The blow to the man’s ego was going to be huge, and Tristan allowed himself a small bit of glee over Wolf’s continuing downfall.

“What’s so funny? I thought it was a nice idea.”

“She can’t eat with us, Wolf,” he called back down. “She’s been dead for over seventy-five years. It’s why she goes back to the carriage house in the afternoons. It’s where she haunts. Didn’t you figure that out when no one else saw or spoke to her?”

“What the fuck? Are you kidding me?” Wolf’s shout followed him upstairs, and Tristan shook his head at the outrage in his lover’s voice. “I thought it was just because we were… shit, fucking hell.”

“No, I’m not kidding you!” Tristan called down from the second-floor turn. “And don’t forget to lock the door before you come up.”

“Just tell me one thing,” Wolf yelled back. “Tell me this dog here is real. Right? Boris? He’s real, right?”

“Lock the door, Wolf!”

“Fucking hell,” Tristan heard Wolf mutter at the enormous shaggy dog angling for a head scratch. “Let me go lock the door. Then me, you, and your daddy are going to have a long, serious talk. But maybe after that spaghetti finishes simmering.”

About the Author

R
HYS
F
ORD
was born and raised in Hawai’i, then wandered off to see the world. After chewing through a pile of books, a lot of odd food, and a stray boyfriend or two, Rhys eventually landed in San Diego, which is a very nice place but seriously needs more rain.

Rhys admits to sharing the house with three cats, a black Pomeranian puffball, a bonsai wolfhound, and a ginger cairn terrorist. Rhys is also enslaved to the upkeep of a 1979 Pontiac Firebird, a laptop, and a red Hamilton Beach coffeemaker.

Visit Rhys’s blog at http://rhysford.wordpress.com/ or e-mail Rhys at [email protected].