Ghosts of Boyfriends Past by Vivi Andrews

screaming deep inside her for three years suddenly go quiet. “What did you—? Terminal?”
    “Paul Lundgren, Gabriel Fox and Anthony Gable. Didn’t they tell you they were dying?” Mark cocked his head to the side. “They all decided to move to Parish after they were diagnosed. I can think of worse places to finish out your days.” He seemed to realize he was still holding her hand on the cup and drew his back, his fingers dragging a slow caress over her skin.
    Biz barely felt it. His words had hollowed her out.
    For the last three years her life had been filled with one certainty. She had killed them. It was her fault. And while knowledge of their impending deaths didn’t make her innocent, it changed the whole flavor of the curse. She was luring doomed men to her. Not dooming them herself.
    She took a healthy swallow of Parish Cocoa, feeling the combined heat of chocolate and liqueur sliding down her throat to warm her from the inside out.
    “Whoa there. Take it easy, darlin’.”
    If the curse only touched doomed men, perhaps he was safe. Perhaps it was safe to care for him.
    And if not… What harm could it possibly do? He was already doomed. Biz raised the cup to her lips. “ L’chaim .” To life seemed like a suitably ironic toast. She might as well go down laughing.
    She closed her eyes, savoring the taste and the feeling, and when she opened them Mark filled her vision, handsome, charismatic and so damned alive . The sight sent a ricochet of emotion echoing through her chest. He was stubborn to the point of irritation, charming to the point of arrogance, and handsome to a sickening degree, but alongside all those extremes he was surprisingly malleable, ever changing but never insincere. It was like he spent each moment of his life adapting to new truths, the truth of that moment. If anyone could accept her, really accept her for everything she was, it was Mark.
    Biz took another swallow of cocoa, with an epiphany chaser. She had to tell him. Not just that, but convince him.
    He deserved to know everything. The ghosts were only the tip of it. The witchcraft, the curse. It was his life at stake, after all. If anyone deserved to know her deepest secrets, Mark did.
    Maybe he wouldn’t even freak out much.
    Telling a reporter was a huge leap of faith. She was coward enough to half hope he wouldn’t believe her. But she had to tell him.
    Now the only question was how.
    “I need more schnapps.”
     
    Mark was reasonably certain Biz was drunk off her cute little ass.
    The slurred speech was a good clue. The way she clung to his front like wallpaper as they swayed to the vaguely musical sounds of the band was another hint. But the kicker was the look in her eyes. The gooey, dreamy, completely unguarded look that made his knees wobble in a distinctly unmanly way every time he saw it.
    He was a definite fan of that look. And the Parish Cocoa that had put it there.
    “You have to let me go,” she slurred up at him, her arms twined around his neck like clinging vines. “It’s for your own good.”
    “Let me worry about my own good. You just hang onto me.” He didn’t think she’d stay upright without the support, and he loved the feel of her body melting against his. What they were doing barely qualified as dancing, but the festival was winding down and those few who hung around were just as plastered—and plastered to one another—as they were.
    “Can’t.” She shook her head sadly. “Gotta let you go,” she said, though her arms stayed tangled around him.
    Mark had seen survivor’s guilt before. He’d met people with unusual coping mechanisms for the tragedies life handed them, but Biz was different. And not just because she believed the ghosts of her dead exes took care of her.
    He’d been trying to put his finger on exactly what it was that was so special about her, exactly what it was that drew him so hard, but her indefinable allure remained undefined. As if it changed as readily as she