Grave Phantoms (Roaring Twenties #3)(3)

As if that were the point? Truly.

“And you didn’t come to dinner. Lena made almond cake.”

“Did she? Sorry I missed that,” he said lightly.

“Is that all you missed?”

“Don’t tell me she made lemon pie, or I really will be sorry.”

Anger heated her cheeks. “I’ll give you something to be sorry about, all right. Be serious for one moment, please. I think you owe me at least that for not bothering to say hello to a girl you haven’t seen in months.”

He snapped the edge of the towel toward the ceiling. “Do you not see what’s going on out there? We’re nearly underwater.”

“But it’s my birthday.” Even as the words came out, she knew they sounded petty and childish, and wished she could take them back.

“I know,” he said.

And that made her livid.

“A simple ‘Happy birthday’ would be the polite thing to say. But I’m not sure why I expected you to even remember, because you haven’t answered any of my letters.” He hadn’t even bothered to write and tell her the disappointing news that her friend and seamstress, Benita—who lived downstairs in the Magnusson house—had left for Charleston two weeks ago to tend to a sick relative. “I suppose you just forgot to write me back?”

Bo grunted and avoided her eyes.

“Don’t tell me you were busy working, because I know damn well it hasn’t been raining all that time.”

“No, it hasn’t.” He turned away from her, toweling off his hair.

“Then what? Out of sight, out of mind—is that it? Am I that forgettable?”

“Damn, but I wish you were.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? God, Bo. Is it because you’re not being paid to wheel me around town anymore, huh? Is that it? You get promoted and now I’m just a job responsibility you can shuck?”

He tossed her a sharp glance over his shoulder. “Stop being ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You came down here in the middle of the night to tell me that?” He tossed the towel aside and pulled on a dry undershirt.

“What if I did? At least I remembered where to find you after four months, which is more than I can say for your crummy sense of direction.”

Swearing under his breath, he snatched up a clean shirt and glanced up at her as he shrugged into it. His fingers paused on the buttons. “Have you been drinking?”

“Drinking?” Astrid repeated, as if it were the most ludicrous thing she’d ever heard.

“You keep squinting at me with one eye shut.” He marched toward her. Before she could get away, his fingers gripped her shoulders. She dropped her umbrella and leaned back, trying to avoid him, but his neck craned to follow her movement. His attractive face was inches from hers, all sharp cheekbones and sharper jaw.

He sniffed. Clever, all-seeing eyes narrowed as he tracked her sin with the precision of a bloodhound. “Champagne.”

“Only a little,” she argued, breathing in the mingled scents of the dusty warehouse and rainwater, and beneath those, the brighter fragrance of Bo.

All her anger disappeared for a moment because—damn it all!—she’d missed him so much. She didn’t care if his position in the Magnusson household meant they shouldn’t be together, or that societal rules regarding their cultural differences meant they couldn’t be together. If she had to make a vow never to leave him again, she would. And unlike the no-drinking promise, she’d be able to keep this one, because if going away to college had taught her anything, it was that Bo was what she wanted.

Only Bo.

She softened in his grip and dazedly blinked up at him with a small, hiccupped laugh.

“Ossified,” he proclaimed. For a moment, the slyest of smiles curled the corners of his mouth. She loved that smile. He was the shiniest, most vibrant person she’d ever known, and she wanted to soak him up like warm sunlight.

His gaze fell to her hand, which had drifted to her neck like a shield, as if it could somehow prevent her runaway feelings from escaping. “I thought you said you broke that wristwatch,” he said in a lower voice.

“I did. But my arm feels bare without it.”

For a moment, she thought he might reach for her hand. But he merely released her, stepping away to button his shirt. “You shouldn’t be drinking.”

“So what if I’ve had a coupe or two of champagne? A girl’s entitled to that much, freshly back from college and on her birthday,” she said, following him around the desk. Never mind that she’d had five glasses, possibly six. She could still walk straight. Mostly. “Besides, I’m an adult now, if you haven’t noticed.”

“College magically transformed you, huh? To think I’ve been doing it wrong all these years, what with this pesky hard work and responsibility.”

“You’re a jackass.”

“So I’ve been told. By you, several times, if I remember correctly.” He tucked in his shirt and donned a leather shoulder holster and gun, a sobering reminder of this warehouse’s purpose and Bo’s role in it.

“Why are you avoiding me?” she persisted. “Why did you stop answering my letters?”

“I’m sorry—were you waiting on me to answer?” He combed his damp hair back with his fingers, cool as you please, but his words were delivered with tiny barbs. “It sounded like you had your hands full, what with that harem of college boys salivating beneath your skirt.”