Page 57 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

He’s a ghost, she reminded herself. A mystery. A problem to be solved. Not . . . whatever this is becoming.

She had to stop it. Stop the way her pulse quickened when she was with him; stop the way that moments between them seemed to stretch, thick with possibilities.

So, she drew in a careful breath and stepped back, physically breaking the moment before it could deepen even further.

“Anyway,” she said brightly — far too brightly — turning towards the desk. “Excellent. Emotionally confusing supernatural revelations aside, what’s the plan? Tea? Research?”

There was nothing but silence from Theo, and so she risked a glance back.

He was still watching her.

“Augustine,” he said quietly.

“Don’t,” she returned, just as quietly, a plea to her voice. “Just . . . don’t.”

She made a point of picking up a bowl of charms, sorting them needlessly into colours, and she heard Theo sigh behind her.

“Augustine.”

She shook her head once. “Seriously. Let’s not do this, okay?”

“What?” he asked gently.

“This.” She made a vague gesture between them without looking back at him. “The emotionally complicated part.”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit late for that?” Theo asked her softly, and Augustine’s fingers faltered.

Don’t. Don’t do this.

She wasn’t sure whether she was speaking to herself or sending a silent plea to him. Maybe both.

“Augustine. Look at me,” he said softly.

“No.”

“Augustine.”

There was warmth in the way he said her name. A mix of familiarity and concern; maybe even something dangerously close to tenderness, and she hated — she absolutely hated — just how much she wanted to turn around.

“Augustine,” he said again, and she finally relented, looking over her shoulder towards him. She refused to meet his gaze, however, looking anywhere but his face. Instead, she watched as his hand lifted hesitantly, like he’d forgotten himself, or perhaps remembered something he shouldn’t. Tremulously, his fingers found hers, brushing against them where they hovered over the table.

Augustine’s breath caught sharply in her throat while Theo froze, and for one impossible, suspended second, neither of them moved.

Because they were touching.

Chapter Twenty

Theo’s hand rested against hers, warm and real, and heat spread where their skin met, carrying a faint, trembling energy up Augustine’s arm. Her eyes were fixed helplessly on the point of contact; on the subtle touch where his fingertips touched hers.

She could feel him. That soft give of skin, as well as a faint, uneven rhythm beneath it, so slight she thought she was imagining it at first. A flicker. A pulse.

A heartbeat, she realized in wonder. He has a heartbeat.

It was distant but undeniable, and her breath came slower now as she inhaled deeply, her world now narrowed to the single, impossible sensation of his hand next to hers.

She looked up, but Theo didn’t move. He only stared at where their skin met, just as transfixed as she was. His eyes traced the line of their hands with a hint of mistrust at what he was seeing, as though looking too quickly might break whatever fragile thread had allowed this to happen. Then, carefully — almost reverently — his fingers shifted.

He turned his hand, hesitated for the briefest second, and then laced his fingers through hers, deepening the contact. His grip tightened, not enough to hurt her, but just enough to prove to the both of them that this was real. That this was happening.