His lightly sprinkled with crisp hair thighs—all muscled and lean. Niiiice.
Delaney forced her mouth to close because really, gawking at your spirit was unattractive in a medium. She threw a silent prayer upward that whoever was in charge upstairs might want to consider the long dry spell her love life had been suffering and send in some ugly spirits from here on out. It was only fair . . .
He continued to wait without explanation.
This was turning into a battle of wills, and it was time to raise the white flag. He clearly wasn’t leaving, and she clearly was going to miss Ghost Whisperer if she didn’t acquiesce and figure him out. Treading carefully to the end of the bed, she sat at the very edge, noting he had some weight to him. The dip in the middle of her mattress said so.
Huh. When was the last time she’d encountered a spirit who was solid matter? Or for that matter, one who could pick up solid matter?
Once. Only once and that wasn’t up for discussion.
Hell to the no.
The very idea made her shiver and rub her arms with icy hands.
“I don’t suppose you have anything else I could wear?” His question rang hopeful, cutting her fears off for the moment.
Cool. Calm. Collected. All soothing c words she needed to apply here. Delaney slapped a placid smile on her face. “Forget something to wear. You can have my bathrobe for now. So how about we start at the beginning? I’m Delaney Markham. Your earthly guide to all things crossing over to the other side. I’m here to help you with whatever you need, and while I don’t want to grudge about it, you’re definitely not going away. So how is it that I can help you? Do you need to clear up an event in your life you left unresolved before you died? Contact a living relative? Make peace with someone? Like maybe a sibling—or a girlfriend? Your parents? College roommate? Dry cleaner? Say something—I’m grasping at straws here.”
He cocked his head at her, his sharp jaw lifting, his eyes skeptical behind his square glasses. “You can do all that?”
“I can try.”
“Well, thanks, but that’s not why I’m here.”
Delaney nodded knowingly—she’d seen this a million times before. Now she knew why he was here. “I see. So you don’t want to cross over? Is it that you’re afraid of retribution for something you did in life? Because if that’s the case, rest assured, no worries. You wouldn’t have ended up talking to me if you were going somewhere crappy. I only do happy-clappy stuff. And if you’re worried about what’s on the other side, trust me, I’ve done a bazillion crossings and I only hear good things about where you land. So how about we problem-solve together, figure out why you’re stuck here, and then I can get some friggin’ rest. I’m thirty-four. I need rest. The kind of life I lead with you nut jobs inspires wrinkles by the dozens.” She winked to show she was teasing.
He peered more closely at her, leaning forward, yet keeping his hand on the belly of dog number six. Her Benji wannabe. He’d make a perfect standin for the movie dog if not for the fact that he only had one ear, because he’d been tragically injured in a dogfight, and three legs, because his left front leg had been riddled with gangrene and had to be amputated. “I don’t see any wrinkles. You look fine to me.”
Delaney rolled her neck from side to side. “Hookay—one more time. First, what’s your name? Do you remember it?”
Rolling his tongue along the inside of his cheek, he shot her an indignant glare. Like now he was losing patience with her. “Of course I do.”
“Then hit me.”
His eyebrows, as dark as his hair, rose, creasing his forehead. “I would never hit you.”
Oy. “I mean, tell me what your name is.”
“Clyde. Clyde Atwell.”
“And you died how, Clyde? Do you remember?”
“Yep.”
And he clearly wasn’t ready to tell her how he’d died. It was written all over his lean, chiseled, yet oh so serious face. Which meant she might be treading into murky, sensitive waters. “Were the circumstances surrounding your death suspicious?”
“Nope.” He crossed his legs at his ankles, brushing a toe against her fingertips.
Delaney snatched them away without thinking. No ghost she knew could touch or be touched . . .
Hoo boy. This wasn’t looking like what it had appeared to be just moments ago.
She gulped, the sound almost louder than Melinda Gordon’s voice coming from the TV. “So why did you contact me?”
“Well, you’re Delaney Markham, right? And this is the East Village, correct?”
“What’s that have to do with why you’re here?”
“I was told to find a Delaney Markham in the East Village.”
“Why?” she squeaked—none too proud of the fact that she had.
He pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “Because you’re sort of supposed to come with me—or I’m supposed to make sure you end up there, anyway.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Where?”
“Hell.”
Oh.
Well, then.
Yeah, she’d get right on that.
Pack a fucking bag or something.