Page 72 of Ghosted

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Wow.” He presses a hand to his chest. “No hello? No nice to see you? No, Johnny, thank God you’re here, this room was getting painfully under-supervised?”

“It’s a restricted room.”

“I know. Very exciting.”

“You’re not allowed to be in here.”

“Technically, I’m not allowed in a lot of places.” His eyes move lazily over the trays, the hanging prints, the red light bleeding over the walls. “That’s never really stopped being charming.”

“It’s not charming.”

“Give it time.”

I lift the tongs, because apparently I’ve committed to this now. “Leave.”

Johnny’s gaze drops to my hand again, and his smile gets worse. “Are those your weapon of choice, or did I interrupt before you could grab something scarier?”

“They’re metal.”

“They’re tongs.”

“They’ll still hurt.”

“I believe in you.”

I hate that my mouth almost twitches, and I hate more that he catches it. Johnny Cutter looks like the kind of guy who could spot a bad decision from across campus and immediately introduce himself.

“There,” he says softly. “See? We’re bonding.”

“We are absolutely not bonding.”

“No? Shame. I already felt us growing.”

I take a step back without meaning to, and the counter bumps my hip. His eyes drop, but not to the counter. Lower. My sweater has shifted from the movement, just enough for the stretched collar to slip and show the thin red cut on the curve of my breast.

Jagger’s mark.

Johnny goes still for half a second, and then he smiles like someone just handed him the answer key.

“Oh,” he says.

I yank the fabric up. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Look.”

“Alice.” His voice turns soft, almost offended. “I would never disrespect art like that.”

“That’s not art.”

“No?” He takes one step closer, slow and easy. “Could’ve fooled me. Looks intentional.”

His brows lift, and one look says he knows I’m lying, knows I know I’m lying, and is already bored of waiting for me to catch up.

“Right,” he says.