Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood #8)(153)

"Oh, yes, it's . . . amazing." Holly glanced up over the rim of her mug.

"You know, I've never seen you like this before."

Gregg leaned back against the pillows and couldn't help but agree.

Hard to know what had changed; there had been a shift inside of him,

however.

Holly took another sip. "You seem really different."

Unsure what he should say, he kept it about the work. "Well, I never actually thought ghosts existed."

"You didn't?"

"Nah. You know as well as I do all the fixes I've pulled. But here in this house . . . I'm telling you, something is here and I'm dying to get onto the third floor. I had this crazy dream about going up there. . . ." As a sudden headache cut off his thoughts, he rubbed his temple and decided he had eyestrain from having been on a computer for the past seventy-two hours straight. "There's something up in that attic, I'm telling you."

"The butler said it was off-limits."

"Yeah." And he didn't want to buck the guy too much. They had so much good TV to roll out, it wasn't like they needed more--and no sense pushing it. Last thing he wanted was to run into trouble with the management this close to airdate.

And it was very clear Mr. Spit and Polish didn't like them.

"Here, let me show you again . . . this is what really amazes me."

Gregg reached forward and restarted the file so he could watch that figure disappear through the solid door again. "That's pretty damn incredible, right?

I mean . . . did you ever think you'd see something like that?"

"No. I didn't."

Something about the sound of her voice brought his head toward her.

Holly was staring at him, not the screen, while cradling her mug right to her heart.

"What?" he said, checking to see if he'd spilled on his shirt.

"Actually . . . it's about the coffee."

391

J. R.Ward

"Bad aftertaste?"

"No, not at all . . ." She laughed a little and drank some more. "I just never would have guessed you'd remember what kind of coffee I like, much less go to the trouble of making it for me. And you've never asked me what I thought about work before."

Jesus . . . she was right.

She shrugged. "And I guess I'm not surprised that you never believed in what you were doing. I'm just glad you do now."

Unable to keep the eye contact going, Gregg looked out over their two pairs of socked feet, to the windows on the far side of the room. The moon was barely visible through the lace of the curtains, nothing but a soft glow on the dark horizon.

Holly cleared her throat. "I'm sorry if I made you feel awkward."

"Oh . . . yeah . . . no." He reached over and took her free hand, giving it a squeeze. "Listen . . . there's something I want you to know."

He felt her stiffen--which made two of them. He was suddenly bracing

himself as well.

Gregg cleared his throat in the thick silence. "I color my hair."

There was a tense pause--at least on his part. And then Holly broke

into bubbling laughter, the sweet, happy kind that came with relief.

Leaning into him, she ran her nails through his falsely dark waves.

"You do?"

"I'm gray at the temples. Really gray. I started doing something about it a year before I met you--have to stay young in Hollywood."

"Where do you get it done? Because you're never rooty."

With a curse, he shifted off the bed and went to his suitcase,

rummaging around to the bottom of the thing. Flashing the box in question, he muttered, "Just for Men hair color. I do it myself. I don't want to be caught in a salon."

Holly smiled at him so widely, she got crinkles around her eyes. And

what do you know, he liked the way they looked. Gave her pretty face some character.

He glanced down at the box. Staring at the model on the front, all

kinds of truths came to him, the kind that he simply couldn't fight or even argue with. "You know what, I hate Ed Hardy Tshirts. Damn things'll burn your retinas. And distressed jeans give me the scratch . . . and those square-toed loafers I wear bother my feet. I'm tired of being suspicious of everyone and working for money just so I can spend it ahead of everybody else on something that will be out of style next year." He tossed the hair color back into his suitcase and liked the fact that it could sit out in the fresh air, so to 392

J. R.Ward

speak. "Those files? On that computer? First ones Stan and I haven't doctored up. I've been a fake for a long time working in a fake industry doing fake shit. The only thing that was real was the cash, and you know what? I don't know if that's going to do it for me anymore."

As he got back up on the bed, Holly finished her coffee, put the

computer and the mug aside, and draped herself across his chest.

Best damn blanket he'd ever had.

"So what do you want to do next?" she asked.

"I don't know. Not this. Well, I'm kind of getting off on the ghost-hunter stuff, actually. The producer crap? Meh." Looking down at the top of her head, he had to smile. "You're the only one who knows about my old-man hair."