Page 75 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

I shrug. “I felt like we needed a place worthy of third-date escalation.”

I give him a knowing smile, one he returns, before we’re interrupted by the arrival of our food. It looks like art and is annoyingly good and our date only gets better from there. We talk the entire time, and not in that strained, first-date way either. Instead, it’s easy, like we’ve known each other for far longer than we actually have.

He tells me things that feel oddly specific — little preferences, half-formed opinions — like he’s remembering himself out loud. I tell him things I don’t usually tell people this quickly, and don’t entirely understand why I trust him so soon. I’ve never felt like this before, not with anyone, and at that thought I feel a flicker of fear; a real moment of doubt. I consider pulling away, but then Theo . . .

Well, Theo reaches across the table for my hand, and just like that, the moment passes, and all doubt is gone. His hand on mine feels so incredibly right, and I can’t help but lean into it a little, allowing my fingers to sink into his. His thumb traces small, absent circles against my skin while we talk, and it’s incredibly distracting. I lose my train of thought twice and blame it on the wine, but in truth it's him. Him, and his warmth and humour and those blue eyes I lose myself in all too easily.

There’s a moment — somewhere between dessert and me pretending I’m too full for dessert and then eating half of his — where the conversation dips, just slightly. It’s not awkward but simply quiet, and Theo looks at me with eyes that are almost molten. One of his hands travels up my arm to the strap of my dress, and he tucks his thumb under the fabric lightly, giving a small pull I feel all the way to my core.

“You wore this dress last time,” he says, his voice low. It’s not a question.

“Yes.”

“I like it.” There’s something threaded into his voice now. Something hotter than before.

I hold his gaze. “I know.”

He stares at me and I lean back, licking my lips.

“What do you like about it?” I ask, feeling brave.

He sits back, but his hand never leaves mine, and he pulls on the strap of my dress one more time. “That depends — do you want the truth or a respectable half-truth?”

“The truth, obviously.”

“Okay.” He nods slowly. “The truth? I haven’t once looked at you in that dress without wondering what you look like underneath it.” He leans forward, letting that line and all the images it instantly draws forth settle into my mind. “Your dress is lovely, don’t get me wrong. But oh my God, you’d be a thousand times lovelier without it.”

“You . . . you basically just admitted you’ve thought about me naked,” I say through a dry mouth, a tremor of what I can only describe as longing running through my blood, heating my skin.

Theo nods. “Pretty much from the moment you fell into my arms, cat ears sliding down your hair, it’s been on my mind.”

I shift in my seat, but that only makes things worse. My skin feels too aware of itself, every inch of it tuned to him, to the way his thumb is still absentmindedly brushing over my knuckles like he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing to me.

“That’s a long time to be thinking about something,” I say, trying for lightness, but my voice comes out lower than I intend. Much more throaty. “We’ve been dating . . . what? All of two weeks?”

“An agonising amount of time. Good thing I’m a patient man,” he replies, but the way his eyes flicker over me betrays an impatience instead.

I let out a small breath. “I don’t know if I believe that.”

“No?” His grip on my hand tightens just slightly, holding me there, subconsciously keeping me from retreating into something safer. “I suppose I could be less patient.”

The words land low, somewhere beneath thought, beneath reason. I swallow, my pulse quickening in a way that feels almost embarrassingly obvious. There’s an ache building in my lower belly, while my nipples are now pointed buds beneath the dress Theo’s so desperate to remove. I take another deep, steadying breath, while his thumb continues to rub circles.

“You’re so . . .” I’m lost for words. Because I don’t actually know what he is and I’ve never felt this way before, not with anyone.

His gaze doesn’t leave mine. “I’m what?”

“You’re so good at this,” I finish, shaking my head, a faint smile tugging at my mouth despite everything. “You know exactly what you’re doing to me, don’t you?”

There’s a pause. Then, quieter, almost deliberately, Theo leans forward. “Do you want me to stop?”

I could lie. I should lie, probably. But that idea barely forms before it dissolves under the weight of everything else . . . his touch, his voice, the way my body has already decided something my brain is still trying to negotiate.

So, I lean in just enough to close the space he’s been watching all night, my voice barely above a whisper. “No,” I admit. “I really don’t.”

His expression shifts, not triumphant, not smug, just certain. As if something has clicked into place exactly where it was always meant to go. Maybe that should bother me, I think. The ease of all this. The fact that he’s read me so quickly and so completely. That whatever this is between us has accelerated past the point of plausible deniability and into something much harder to deny.

There’s a part of me, a very rational, well-socialized part, that is suddenly whispering again: third date. This is the third date. As if that means something. As if there’s a rulebook I’m meant to be following, a timeline I’m supposed to respect. The patriarchy, and all that, I remind myself.