Kiss Me Hello by L. K. Rigel Page B

want to call him cruel, but that’s how it felt. She started to cry.
    “Don’t be stupid,” she told herself. She wasn’t going to let him get that close to her again, not until she was sure of him—and of herself. She put the pills in the cabinet without taking one.

- 13 -
Snowdrops In May
    T HE POND WAS STILL there in the eucalyptus grove, fed by the little waterfall from the stream. This time of year so many kinds of flowers were in bloom. Irises, tulips, daffodils, narcissus, lilies, and more. And snowdrops, which should be impossible. The middle of May was far too late for snowdrops.
    The slate rock jutted over the side of the pond as if put there by design, a place to sit and watch the fish go by. Sara sat down and wrapped her arms around her knees. No fish. Maybe they’d show up when the water was warmer.
    And then it hit her: she would be here when the water was warmer. She’d be here all through summer—and beyond. Every summer from now on, if it was true Turtledove Hill would be hers. Her problem with the district had flipped on its head. Instead of being devastated by a RIF notice, she was actually relieved to get it. She wouldn’t have to write a letter of resignation.
    “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Sara. Wait until you see Aunt Amelia’s lawyer.”
    She rested her head on her knees and closed her eyes, listening to the stream and the birds in the trees. It was strange to think of not being a teacher. Stranger still to realize she wouldn’t mind, not if she had Turtledove Hill.
    All at once, the birds stopped their chatter. The only sound was of water flowing from the stream. Sara looked across the pond and gasped. He was standing among the snowdrops, watching her.
    She scrambled to her feet, never taking her eyes off the man on the other side of the pond. “Are you real?”
    He raised an eyebrow. “Are you ?”
    “My name is Sara Lyndon—Blakemore.”
    “My name is Joss Montague.” With a worried expression, he took a step forward. “Don’t disappear.”
    “That’s my line.” She stepped down from the rock and moved a few steps closer to him. He was dressed the same. Among the trees and flowers he was even more like a romantic poet—or a Mr. Rochester. “Are you…are you a ghost?”
    “I don’t know what I am. I think not, if you can see me and hear me.” He smiled and stretched his hand out to her. “And touch me.”
    Sara recoiled inside, but he looked so vulnerable and hopeful that she couldn’t be afraid. “Promise you’re not an axe murderer?” she said.
    His laughed and ran his hand through his hair. “Promise.”
    She returned his smile. He was surely something ghostly, but he struck her as all muscle and hard angles, good bones, soulful dark eyes—something human. He had quiet charisma. Inner beauty . There really was such a thing.
    “I’ll try to touch you,” she said.
    The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Touch away.” His sleeves were rolled back, exposing his forearms. “I doubt you’ll have a problem.”
    “If I hadn’t seen you disappear on the stairs,” Sara said, “I’d think this was a joke. You seem so real.”
    “I seem real. I guess that’s a comfort.”
    She gripped his arm, but her hand made a fist and went through. He slipped out of her grasp like smoke—but his forearm was still there, intact, with the rest of him. “What the hell?” She backed away.
    “Interesting.” He wrinkled his eyebrows in a puzzled frown and looked from his forearm to Sara. “You had no trouble last night.”
    “Last night.”
    “Last night,” he said quietly. “When you ravished me.”
    “I did no such thing. Last night I was with my husband.”
    “No, doll. You were with me.”
    “That’s…not possible.” A feeling of dread crept down Sara’s spine. It wasn’t possible. “You didn’t—you couldn’t possess Bram’s body.”
    “Who is Bram?”
    “My husband. The man I slept with last night.”
    “Last night, doll? You were with me.”