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Authors: Vivi Andrews
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almost kissed him. Thank heaven for Moonbeam and Wyatt’s three o’clock.
Jo nervously ran her hands down her shirt and tried not to look like she had been seriously considering trying to remove Wyatt’s tonsils with her tongue fifteen seconds ago.
He groaned and spoke from the floor, “Please tell Brenner I’ll have to reschedule. I appear to be haunted.”
Jo forgot to be flustered. “Well, stop the presses, Wyatt Haines just admitted to believing in ghosts.”
“Hallelujah,” Moonbeam said over her shoulder as the office doors shut behind her.
Wyatt winced and got to his feet. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Oh no. You can’t take it back now. I have a witness.”
“Fine,” he conceded with ill grace. “I will admit to believing in ghosts until you can get whatever the hell is inside of me out again. So could you please hurry up so I can go back to being a faithless heathen?”
Jo felt herself smiling. He was actually sort of charming, completely by accident, but it was endearing nonetheless. “Anything you say, boss. I never could say no to a man in glasses.”
Groucho Marx had nothing on Wyatt Haines.
Chapter Nine: Vehicular Compensation
Wyatt insisted on driving them out to the South Elm Street Victorian—with a quick stop for nail polish remover. Jo couldn’t make herself protest his take-charge attitude when it meant she got to ride in the plush Bentley Continental GT.
Jo was a Harley girl herself, but even she could appreciate the hand-selected leather-hide upholstery and the sexy purr of the six-hundred-horsepower engine—even if it was blatant compensation. As compensation went, it was a hot little way to blow two-hundred grand.
Jo stroked the baby-soft leather and watched Wyatt maneuver the Bentley through the late-afternoon traffic. He was such a contradiction—the materialistic, soulless corporate machine who made his millions by providing people with peaceful getaways in unique, artistic inns with a reputation for spiritual refreshment.
“Has anyone ever told you that you don’t seem like the kind of man who knows how to take a vacation, let alone create the ideal vacation for millions of people every year?” she asked.
Wyatt didn’t even glance in her direction. “Yes.”
“That doesn’t seem odd to you?”
“It’s a job. Are you defined by your job?” Then he did glance at her, taking in the black hair, the rock T-shirt, and her general nod toward badass attitude. “Never mind. Forget I asked that.”
Jo’s irritation spiked. “Hey, I’m more than just a ghost exterminator, thank you very much.”
“Of course you are. You’re an anti-establishment stereotype.”
He did not just go there. “Did you just call me a stereotype, Mr. Corporate Clone?”
“Are you telling me you’re not trying desperately to fit in by doing everything you can not to fit in?”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Sure it does.” Wyatt took the turn onto South Elm then draped his wrist over the steering wheel as he slowed on the quiet street. “You’re trying to prove that you’re different enough to belong with the people who don’t belong.”
It wasn’t true. Of course , it wasn’t true. But it felt true. And terrifying. Who would she be if she wasn’t badass Ghost Girl? “I can’t just be different? I have to be trying to prove something or be something I’m not?”
“You could just be different,” Wyatt conceded readily then ruined it by continuing, “But you’re not.”
“You don’t know me.”
He shrugged. “Not any better than you know me, but you’re determined to box me in as a corporate clone.”
Jo looked out the window to avoid meeting his eyes. As much as she hated to admit it, he did have a point. At least about that. He was completely wrong about everything else, of course, but on this? She was being just as prejudiced as he was. The apology was going to stick in her throat, but she would force it out. “You’re
Jo nervously ran her hands down her shirt and tried not to look like she had been seriously considering trying to remove Wyatt’s tonsils with her tongue fifteen seconds ago.
He groaned and spoke from the floor, “Please tell Brenner I’ll have to reschedule. I appear to be haunted.”
Jo forgot to be flustered. “Well, stop the presses, Wyatt Haines just admitted to believing in ghosts.”
“Hallelujah,” Moonbeam said over her shoulder as the office doors shut behind her.
Wyatt winced and got to his feet. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Oh no. You can’t take it back now. I have a witness.”
“Fine,” he conceded with ill grace. “I will admit to believing in ghosts until you can get whatever the hell is inside of me out again. So could you please hurry up so I can go back to being a faithless heathen?”
Jo felt herself smiling. He was actually sort of charming, completely by accident, but it was endearing nonetheless. “Anything you say, boss. I never could say no to a man in glasses.”
Groucho Marx had nothing on Wyatt Haines.
Chapter Nine: Vehicular Compensation
Wyatt insisted on driving them out to the South Elm Street Victorian—with a quick stop for nail polish remover. Jo couldn’t make herself protest his take-charge attitude when it meant she got to ride in the plush Bentley Continental GT.
Jo was a Harley girl herself, but even she could appreciate the hand-selected leather-hide upholstery and the sexy purr of the six-hundred-horsepower engine—even if it was blatant compensation. As compensation went, it was a hot little way to blow two-hundred grand.
Jo stroked the baby-soft leather and watched Wyatt maneuver the Bentley through the late-afternoon traffic. He was such a contradiction—the materialistic, soulless corporate machine who made his millions by providing people with peaceful getaways in unique, artistic inns with a reputation for spiritual refreshment.
“Has anyone ever told you that you don’t seem like the kind of man who knows how to take a vacation, let alone create the ideal vacation for millions of people every year?” she asked.
Wyatt didn’t even glance in her direction. “Yes.”
“That doesn’t seem odd to you?”
“It’s a job. Are you defined by your job?” Then he did glance at her, taking in the black hair, the rock T-shirt, and her general nod toward badass attitude. “Never mind. Forget I asked that.”
Jo’s irritation spiked. “Hey, I’m more than just a ghost exterminator, thank you very much.”
“Of course you are. You’re an anti-establishment stereotype.”
He did not just go there. “Did you just call me a stereotype, Mr. Corporate Clone?”
“Are you telling me you’re not trying desperately to fit in by doing everything you can not to fit in?”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Sure it does.” Wyatt took the turn onto South Elm then draped his wrist over the steering wheel as he slowed on the quiet street. “You’re trying to prove that you’re different enough to belong with the people who don’t belong.”
It wasn’t true. Of course , it wasn’t true. But it felt true. And terrifying. Who would she be if she wasn’t badass Ghost Girl? “I can’t just be different? I have to be trying to prove something or be something I’m not?”
“You could just be different,” Wyatt conceded readily then ruined it by continuing, “But you’re not.”
“You don’t know me.”
He shrugged. “Not any better than you know me, but you’re determined to box me in as a corporate clone.”
Jo looked out the window to avoid meeting his eyes. As much as she hated to admit it, he did have a point. At least about that. He was completely wrong about everything else, of course, but on this? She was being just as prejudiced as he was. The apology was going to stick in her throat, but she would force it out. “You’re
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