Teddy sang in the shower and danced around a bit in the small space. She shaved as she laughed with glee, and managed to avoid not only cutting her knee, but also bumping her elbow on the edge of the soap dish in the tiny stall, even when she added in a little wriggle of a dance. She shampooed the hell out of her hair, and used some fragrant scrubbing salts on her skin. Slough away, baby.

It had been a couple days since she’d showered.

But when she remembered how she’d flung her less-than-fresh self at Oscar, her enthusiasm dampened a little.

Though he hadn’t thrust her away, so maybe she hadn’t smelled that bad.

But…yikes.

Not that it mattered—for the guy was still totally hung up on his ex. Which was a bummer, because though she’d been brain-deep in Sargent Blue’s adventure, there had been a few random moments when she remembered that wet and steamy (literally) kiss in the pool.

And the way he’d kissed her back. And the feel of his muscular arms around her, and the firm planes of his chest beneath her hands…

Mmmhmmm, she thought as she scanned the closet (of course she’d unpacked and hung up all her clothes—it was a great way to procrastinate). Definitely, she’d want to explore that a little more—if the opportunity arose.

Which was why Teddy ended up choosing a cobalt-blue maxi dress that had a deep-but-not-too-slutty vee neck in the front and the back, and wide shoulder straps that wouldn’t fall down—or require her to wear a strapless bra. The color made her eyes appear wildly blue, and didn’t make her light skin seem too pasty. A silver necklace with a lot of interesting charms and disks hanging from it nestled into the bodice’s deep vee, and she wore matching earrings that sparkled every time she moved. She bundled her thick hair (long overdue for a trim) into a messy chignon and chose a pop of pink lipstick. No, she didn’t “clean up” very often, but when she did, she was damned good at it.

And, she discovered, so was the inscrutable but fascinating Dr. London.

He was wearing off-white chinos that neither sagged nor fit too tightly, belted at just the right place around his waist. In comparison to the previous shirts he’d worn—crisp white or pale blue—the one he’d donned tonight was positively eye-popping. He’d chosen blue as well—this time, a deep navy, with a tiny white pattern on it—and from the slight sheen of the material, Teddy thought it might be either silk or some sort of costly rayon blend.

The dark blue showed off the tan on his forearms and the sun-washed hair sprinkled there. Damp, his hair burned like dull copper instead of carrot. He’d combed it back neatly on the sides and top—though it was just beginning to curl up as it dried, and there was an errant lock that appeared ready to spring free and tumble over his temple. And he’d somehow managed a quick shave, for his chin was smooth and she caught a whiff of something fresh and male that had her hormones sitting up and taking notice.

“I looked up how to get to Trib’s,” he told her as they climbed into his Grand Cherokee. “I wasn’t sure if you knew, and I haven’t been into Wicks Hollow myself.”

“Oh, good. I haven’t seen the downtown area for years. My first night here, Declan and Leslie—that’s his girlfriend—took me to dinner at a non-touristy place outside of town.” She gestured to her dress and then to his similarly colored shirt. “Apparently, you got the memo.”

“The memo?”

She gave a huff of quiet laughter. “It’s a joke—we’re wearing the same colors, and— Well, never mind.” She winced a little at her sad attempt at humor, and began to bubble up with all of the conversation she’d stoppered up inside over the last five days. “I can’t believe I wrote fifty thousand words in six days. Neither can Harriet—I called her with the news.”

“That’s a lot of words,” he agreed. “When I write articles or research papers, they might be in the range of five thousand words or so—and it takes me a lot longer than a week.”

They’d crossed the bridge from the lighthouse’s island, and he eased the car onto the two-lane county highway. The road traced the shore of Lake Michigan, offering glimpses of the vast, sparkling blue through pines, birches, and other trees, as well as small bluffs and a few houses tucked into the forest that edged the lake.

She beamed at him. “I’m just so glad the book’s done. Well, mostly done. Now that I have a first draft, going back and fine-tuning it and tweaking things, making some edits and maybe moving some scenes around, is much easier work.”

“So it’s not really finished, then?” he said as they turned off Highway 31 and onto Wicks Road.

A sign said:

“I’m finished enough to know that I’ll have a final draft for my editor within the next couple of weeks. That’s what matters. The story’s done, so the pressure’s off,” she said, resting her head back against the seat and turning to look at him.

Nice profile, Dr. London, she thought. Strong nose, good chin, excellent lips. Very nibble-able.

“Well, you definitely look a lot more relaxed,” he said after a few moments of silence and a quick look her way. “I like your dress.”

She smiled to herself. “Thank you. So, what have you been doing all week besides delivering food to me? Which, really, Oscar, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. Back home—I live in New York City—I can call for food delivery when I’m on deadline.”

“I didn’t mind. It seemed like a waste for each of us to cook separately anyway, so— Oh, damn, I forgot to tell you. Your cousin came by the other evening.”

“Declan stopped by? I didn’t realize.”

“Yes. I— Well, since it wasn’t anything urgent, I didn’t think you’d want to be bothered. And he agreed.”

“Thank you for that. I appreciate it. Did he leave some books for me to sign?”

“Yes. I should have remembered before we left—then we could have brought them with us. And dropped them off.” He glanced at her. “He was telling me a crazy story about a ghost in Leslie’s B&B.”

“I heard something about that—he’s promised to give me details the next time— Oh, there’s a parking place right there.” They’d been driving through the semi-familiar village for three blocks already, and that was the first open spot she’d seen. “Wow. The town sure has changed since I was here last.”

“How long ago was that?” he asked, maneuvering his Jeep expertly into the parallel parking spot.

“You’re good at that,” she said. “Usually it takes me a few tries to get into a spot like this.”

He shrugged. “It’s just geometry.”

“Yeah. Math wasn’t ever my strong suit. Hence the writing career.” She opened the door and popped out without waiting for him to come around. “It’s been, oh, at least ten or fifteen years since I was here.” She laughed, gesturing at the signs for the main intersection of the compact business district. “I always found it amusing that the two main roads at the town center area are called Pamela Boulevard and Faith Avenue—when neither of them is hardly any more than a two-lane street.”

“Maybe the founders were being optimistic,” Oscar said, joining her on the sidewalk.

She chuckled again. “That’s what I always thought. Lofty ideals. Oh, there’s the yoga studio. That’s new. Leslie’s aunt—her name is Cherry, and she happens to be a big fan of Sargent Blue; the lady’s got good taste—anyway, she owns that. See, up there on the second floor? I bet those big windows give them a great view of Lake Michigan while they’re doing warrior pose and all that.

“And if you follow Pamela Ave out that way,” she said, pointing west, “and turn north onto Elizabeth Street—and it’s really just a street, not an avenue—you get to what they call B&B Row, where most of the tourists stay. That’s where all the painted ladies are, lined up like they’re parading down the street wearing their fancy hats and so on. The old Victorian homes just dripping with curlicue trim and garrets jutting out from the rooftops. Some of them even have little porches and balconies up there on the second and third floors—I forget what they’re called—but anyway, they call those old houses painted ladies because of all the bright colors they sport.”

“I know what a painted lady is,” Oscar said dryly. “I’m from Princeton, remember? Cape May is nearly in my backyard.”

“Oh, right,” she said, and just barely stopped herself from casually slipping her arm through his to walk along the sidewalk. Maybe after dinner…and a drink or two to loosen them both up. “And look at all the flowers—on every single doorstep and corner. They’re so beautiful—just spilling out of these pots, and so colorful. Ooh, I love this combination of silver, green, and purple.” She halted in front of the trough of mixed plants near the door of a restaurant. “Oh, this is Trib’s. I’m already in love with it, just from the flowers!”

“Looks pretty crowded,” Oscar muttered.

“That’s why I wanted to come early,” she said, breezing into the restaurant. “Hmm. I guess he likes Andy Warhol—he must have a print of everything the guy ever did hanging in here—and combined with an industrial look. But it really works. Hi, table for two, please,” she said to the man who greeted them at the check-in stand. On the wall above was a huge framed print of Warhol’s Campbell’s Soup Cans.

The host looked at her, a friendly smile on his face—then, in an instant, that smile bloomed into a grin and his eyes lit up. “You’re T.J. Mack,” he said. “Welcome—and thank you for gracing this humble establishment with your presence! I’m Trib.”

Teddy put his age around the half-century mark, but his was the face and toned body of a young, vibrant fifty. He had platinum-blond hair buzzed very close to his nicely shaped scalp—he wasn’t going for bald, but it was shorter than a brush cut. His goatee and mustache, neatly trimmed, were black threaded with iron gray, and his hazel eyes sparkled with pure pleasure. He wore a pink and white patterned shirt with a butter-yellow bowtie and a creamy linen jacket. The combination was fabulous.

“I certainly wouldn’t use the word humble to describe this place,” she replied, shaking his offered hand. “It’s gorgeous and seems very comfortable. It’s a pleasure to meet you too. This is my friend, Dr. Oscar London.”

Oscar gave her a slight frown—because she used his title, she supposed—but it smoothed away when he shook Trib’s hand. “Nice to meet you. The place does look nice, and I hear you make the best pizza in the county. Is there any chance you have a table for two available now? Maybe somewhere not too—uh—loud?”

“A cozy table, and not outside,” Trib said with a glint in his eye. “For T.J. Mack and her guest, absolutely. I’m a big fan, you know,” he continued, leaning closer to Teddy but not bothering to drop his voice. “I have the most devastating crush on Sargent Blue. Put me out of my misery and tell me you based him on a real person, and that he’s single and you can introduce me to him.”

Teddy laughed as their host led them into the depths of the restaurant. “I wish I could—and you’re not the first person to ask. Unfortunately, Sargent is my own creation—let’s say fantasy, sort of—and he lives only in my mind and on the pages of my books.”

“I’m crushed,” said Trib as he pulled out a chair for her with a flourish. “But I’ll survive.”

Oscar, who’d started toward the same chair, pivoted and took the second one at the four-top Trib had chosen for them. Her housemate appeared mildly aggrieved at being cheated of the opportunity to pull out her chair. Or maybe he just wanted to sit facing the interior of the restaurant.

Trib insisted on comping them their first round of drinks, so once they’d decided on that—a Pinot Noir for Oscar, despite his mention of beer, and an Albariño for Teddy—he flitted off.

“See? It’s not too crowded back here, and it’s pretty quiet. Though it might have been nice to sit where we could see the street and—”

“And all the crowds walking by?” Oscar settled back in his seat and eyed her speculatively. “I thought most writers were introverts.”

“Oh, most of us are. I am.” When he gave her a quirked eyebrow that indicated his disbelief, she added, “I’ve just been saving up for the last five days—locked in my dungeon, working. Even introverts like to be around people—just not very often. And not usually in big groups.” She beamed at him. “And tonight’s a night for celebration, so I’m practically giddy.”

“Only practically?” he muttered, and she laughed. Their gazes met, and he joined her in the moment of humor, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he rumbled a laugh.

They were still chuckling when Trib himself delivered their drinks. “We’ve got another famous author in the house tonight,” he said, his eyes dancing. “Things are really hopping here in tiny Wicks Hollow, and especially at Trib’s.”

“You do? Who is it?” Teddy craned her neck to look around.

“Ethan Murphy—the one who wrote that book The Welcome Blue Light, about near-death experiences.”

“I know Ethan!” Teddy perked up even more. “He’s repped by the same literary agency I am. We’ve met several times. He’s here? I’d love for him to join us—Oscar, you don’t mind, do you?”

“No, of course not,” Oscar replied. But she could see he was unenthusiastic about the idea.

“Maybe just for a drink,” Teddy said, suddenly realizing that having more people at the table might derail her opportunity to get to know her nerdy housemate—and supremely excellent kisser—better.

“They’ve just been served their appetizers,” Trib said, looking across the restaurant. “But I’ll mention to Ethan you’re here and suggest he might come over to say hi later.”

“They?” Oscar asked, and Teddy smothered a laugh. He seemed to be even more cautious around new people than she was.

“Ethan and Diana, his main squeeze,” Trib replied. “They come up nearly every weekend, and spend most of July and August here in the summer. He’s got a spectacular log cabin on Wicks Lake. And she’s the one who inherited the old house that was haunted by her dead aunt,” he added, just before flitting off to speak to another customer. He tossed the last words over his shoulder: “Last summer.”

“Haunted by her dead aunt?” Teddy said, looking after him with a curled lip. “Well, that’s kind of r—”

“I know. There seem to be a lot of ghost stories in this town,” Oscar said. “Probably helps to bring in the tourists.”

“I was going to say ‘redundant.’ Of course her aunt was dead if she was haunting the place. You ever hear of a not-dead person haunting a house?” She tasted her wine. Crisp, light, and a little fruity. Just the way she liked it—and the way she felt tonight. It was as if a huge stone yoke had been lifted from her shoulders.

No, the book wasn’t officially done yet, but she hadn’t been exaggerating when she told Oscar she’d have it finished in a couple weeks. Cleaning up and polishing a finished manuscript was an easy process for her.

Oscar was looking at her—from behind glasses he’d obviously put on for reading then menu. And Teddy’s heart gave an extra big thump.

She loved guys with glasses. Especially scholarly-looking ones like the tortoiseshell horn-rimmed specs he was wearing.

That was why Sargent Blue wore reading glasses and was charmingly far-sighted—which also contributed to some of the plot elements in the series. After all, who ever heard of a spy-slash-adventurer who had imperfect eyesight? No one expected Jason Bourne to have to whip out a pair of glasses to read his mobile phone.

“What?” she said, realizing Oscar had been speaking while her hormones went into overdrive over the glasses.

He removed the spectacles (probably a good thing, all things considered) and looked at her closely. “I said, I’ve never heard of anyone haunting a house—except in movies or books.”

“So you don’t believe in ghosts.”

“I… Well, I don’t know. I never thought about it.”

Teddy narrowed her eyes at him over the rim of her wine glass. “So I suppose that’s why you haven’t mentioned the elephant in the room.”

“What elephant?”

“Well, there are actually two elephants in our room, if you want to be accurate,” she said primly.

His expression popped into: Oh boy.

She nearly laughed again, because she practically read the words hanging from his mouth—and his lips didn’t even move.

“Right,” he said—aloud this time. “So, did you look at the menu yet? Probably a good idea to do that before the server comes over and interrupts us.”

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” she replied. “Wouldn’t want our secret pachyderm discussion to be interrupted. Nicely done, Dr. London.”

He made a noise that sounded like a snort or a smothered chuckle—or maybe he was choking on fear—but Teddy was already looking at the menu and missed his expression. Still, she was having a grand time teasing him. He was so cute when he had that deer-in-headlights look. And there was also the glasses aspect.

Nonetheless, she was a little nervous bringing up the topic of what had happened at the top of the lighthouse.

And that spectacular kiss in the hot spring—that being Elephant Number Two, of course.

But clearly he was nervous as well.

So… She lifted her wine in a small, private toast, and thought: To exposing elephants in the room. Why the hell not?

Oscar had managed to keep Teddy from veering into conversational topics he preferred to avoid—at least so far—and they were already halfway through their main courses. He found it was fairly easy to send her off on different tangents by asking a question or making a comment about anything unrelated to ghosts and whatever that other “elephant” was.

Though he had a suspicion he knew what she was talking about.

He hoped it wasn’t what he thought it was, because the last thing he wanted to do was have a discussion—and, clearly, with Teddy Mack, it would be a Discussion—about how he’d turned a quick, impulsive “thank you” kiss into a full-fledged, hot-blooded, toe-curling, passionate one.

He lifted his wine to take a larger-than-normal drink and managed to keep from ogling her mouth. Much, anyway.

“So,” he said as the previous topic of conversation (whether she traveled for research for her books) wound down, “I was wondering—”

“Nuh-uh-uh,” she said with a cheeky grin that revealed three tiny dimples at the corner of her mouth. She waggled her fork at him. “You’ve avoided the topic long enough, Dr. London. And quite expertly, too. My turn to steer the conversation.”

“How are your scallops?” he asked, a little desperately.

“They’re gorgeous. Fresh, perfectly cooked, and smooth as silk.” She grinned knowingly at him as she gently moved her nearly empty plate aside. “Nice try, but don’t you think it’s time we actually talked about what happened on top of the lighthouse?”

“Do we have to?”

“I think it’s best. Unless you’d rather discuss the incident in the pool first.”

He gritted his teeth, grew a pair, and dove in. It’d be better if he drove the direction of that track himself. “Given the choice…perhaps that is a better topic. Addressing the—er—incident. In the hot springs.”

“Really?” She seemed surprised—and perhaps even a little bashful about the topic, if the extra pink in her cheeks was any indication. Which he didn’t get at all, because she’d been the one to bring it up—twice.

He would never understand women.

“Because I owe you an apology,” he told her. “For—er—taking things to a—er—different level. I realize you were simply, um, exuberant in that moment, and didn’t mean anything by it.” He cleared his throat. “I should have said something before now, but you were busy and I didn’t want…to disturb…”

Teddy’s expression had his voice trailing off. It was a combination of shock and maybe a little bit of— Well, he didn’t know what it was. He had no idea how to read women. Especially one like Teddy Mack.

“You’re apologizing for kissing me back after I flung myself willy-nilly into your arms and kissed you?” Her brows had drawn together with little furrows between them.

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“I’m not certain whether to be insulted or overcome with laughter, Oscar. Did you feel me fighting you off? Pushing you away?”

Oh my God. His heart dropped and he broke out in a cold sweat. His ears rang. “No! No, I didn’t. Christ, Teddy, I didn’t realize—”

But she was goggling at him as she began to shake with laughter. “No,” she managed to say, wagging her head vehemently as she tried to catch her breath and form words. “No, Oscar, geez,” she said, tears streaming from her eyes, “that’s not what I meant.” She wiped them away, settled herself, then looked him dead in the eye. “I was trying to say: did you feel me pushing you away or fighting you off, because—no, I wasn’t. It was a mutually enjoyable moment,” she said. Her voice had gone schoolteacher prim, and he imagined she’d capitalized the phrase in her mind. “There’s no need to apologize.”

With that prissy tone came a little bit of reserve, too; she eased back in her chair a little and picked up her wine as if it were a barrier.

“I see.” He felt a little faint with relief. A mutually enjoyable moment. He could get on board with that.

“Good.” She set her glass down, folded her hands in front of her, then leaned forward. “Now, Dr. London, why don’t you grow a pair and let’s talk about what happened at the top of the lighthouse.”

He stifled a groan, then picked up his glass. “Fine. You first,” he said, gesturing toward her.

She beamed at him, and his insides went a little mushy. Dammit, Teddy Mack was just so pretty to look at, with her gleaming blue eyes and that thick, cocoa-colored hair—and those soft lips. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the bout of giggles, and he had to keep dragging his eyes up and away from that dark, shadowy vee at the neckline of her dress.

“All right. Let’s talk facts first. The door slams shut—somehow. It didn’t feel windy enough for it to blow closed from being flat against the window behind it. Did it?”

“No. It wasn’t. Nor was what wind there was coming— Wait.” He shook his head and lifted a hand. “Let me try again. The wind was not coming in a direction that could have blown the door closed—according to physics, anyway.”

“Right. So what happened?”

“Freak of nature?”

She narrowed her eyes at him again, the way she did when she was about to spear him with a question or comment. He fought back a grin as she said, “How about a ghost?”

Ugh. Why did she have to say it out loud? He marshaled his efforts. “Why would you think it was a ghost? If such a thing even exists.”

“And what makes you think they don’t?” she purred.

He sighed and had to concede. “I don’t know.”

“Well, now we’re getting somewhere.” Her smile turned feline, matching her tone, and her dimples winked slyly at him. “Seriously, Oscar, what other explanation for the door mysteriously blowing closed—and locking—then mysteriously becoming unlocked right after that horrible screaming sound? Not to mention the freezing air, and that glowing thing—”

“Some sort of alga blown in from the lake—”

But she shook her head and kept talking. “No. It had to be a ghost—or some sort of supernatural event.”

“Are you talking about ghosts, Teddy Mack? I thought you stuck to spies and saving the world. Ghosts are my thing.”

Teddy was already up and out of her seat to greet a tall, good-looking man whom Oscar deduced was Ethan Murphy. The newcomer was accompanied by an attractive woman who was elegant in a Jackie Kennedy sort of way—even her hair was similarly short and dark, and she wore a slim lavender dress that looked summery and cool.

“What a small world. It’s so great to run into you here in Wicks Hollow,” Teddy said as she shook Ethan’s hand. “This is my friend, Oscar London. He’s a professor at Princeton, so you two can commiserate about how you have to fight off all the young coeds on campus,” she said with a wicked smile.

Oscar had already risen and was shaking Ethan’s hand—and trying not to be mortified by her comment. Which, unfortunately, was true. He had more than a few young female students—and, twice, male students—make it very clear that they’d like some extra, private tutoring in the lab. It could make things very sticky sometimes, not to mention contaminate any lab samples.

“It’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it,” Ethan said as he shook Oscar’s hand. “Nice to meet you. What’s your area of study?”

“It’s not ghosts,” Teddy said, and gestured to the table as Ethan laughed. “Have a seat; join us for a drink, won’t you? It’s Diana, isn’t it?” she added, turning to Ethan’s date. “I’m Teddy.”

“T.J. Mack—it’s a pleasure to meet you! I love your books,” Diana said, shaking Teddy’s hand and then reaching across to do the same with Oscar. “I’ve just started reading for pleasure again—taking more time for myself and slowing down my crazy workload—and I just finished Dead End. Couldn’t put it down!”

“Thank you,” Teddy said. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

As they all sat down, Oscar accepted that he was now part of a four-person group instead of an intimate dinner for two. Which, he realized, was fine with him.

So, as he didn’t really want to talk about ghosts—and the fact that Ethan had already indicated his comfort with the topic—he jumped into the conversation. “We’re celebrating that Teddy just finished writing her sixth book.”

“Sixth? Wow. I’m just finishing up the notes on my second,” Ethan said with admiration and a touch of envy. He waved at Trib, who’d been hovering nearby as the group meshed. “How about a bottle of that Prosecco we had a couple weeks ago when Fiona and Gideon were here? A finished book is always cause for celebration.”

“Thank you,” Teddy said. “While some people think the most wonderful words in the English language are ‘I love you,’ I think there are no two sweeter words than ‘the end.’”

“Agreed on that,” Ethan said.

“Do you actually type ‘the end’?” Diana asked. “Most books don’t actually end with those words, do they?”

Oscar watched as Teddy’s eyes began to sparkle in that way they did when she talked about her work—at least, when she wasn’t tied up in knots over writer’s block. This would be nice, having the extra couple here. Then he wouldn’t have to manage the conversation, or even participate in it—and he could just enjoy watching her. She was so animated, with such vitality—and it was such bullshit that she claimed she was an introvert. He was an introvert.

“I do, because it’s a major cathartic moment to type them,” Teddy said. “And a lot of authors I know still do. It came from a tradition back when writers would send their work to the publisher in hard copy—and sometimes in batches. The words ‘the end’ let the editor know it was the end.” She shrugged. “Like I said, I do it because it feels so good to know the bloody thing’s finished.”

“So, tell me about Sargent Blue,” Diana said, leaning across the table a little. “Is he based on someone you know?” She had to move back almost immediately, however, because Trib had arrived with four champagne flutes and the bottle of bubbly. “I’m madly in love with him, and I just love that he has to wear reading glasses.”

“Move over, honey,” Trib said as he began to work out the Prosecco’s cork. “I already laid claim to the man—even though Teddy here says he’s only a figment of her imagination. Her fantasy, I think she said.”

Yes, that was what Teddy had said. Oscar remembered that because it got him to thinking about just what that fantasy was. A guy whose hands were lethal weapons, but had to put on a pair of glasses to read his dinner menu? What sort of fantasy was that?

Still, he wanted to know.

Teddy, who’d been given the first taste of sparkling wine at Ethan’s request, sipped and put down the flute. “It’s lovely. Thank you, Ethan. And yes, well, I confess—Sargent Blue is a sort of conglomeration of things I like in a man.”

“Tell me about it,” Trib murmured as he leaned over to fill the glasses.

“Such as?” Ethan had picked up the thread now, and he seemed to be watching the rest of them carefully. He’d settled back in his seat, lounging comfortably in a casual shirt and shorts, with perfect dark hair and a face any woman would find attractive. He looked more like a minor celebrity than a boring college professor like Oscar.

“Well…Blue’s smart. And quick on his feet. He’s got a quirky sense of humor,” Teddy said.

Oscar snorted. “The guy’s a librarian turned agent. He spies on people and kills them if he needs to.”

Teddy leveled a serious look at him. “He only kills people in self-defense—or if they’re about to kill someone else. That’s part of his code, and part of—”

“What makes him so compelling,” Diana said on a breathless sigh that seemed so out of character for a woman who appeared as buttoned up and elegant as she did.

“So a moral code makes a man compelling,” said Ethan, lifting a brow at his date. “Fascinating. Let’s talk about that a little more.

“And here we go—the anthropologist has arrived,” Diana said with an affectionate laugh.

“Of course it does,” Teddy said. “And that’s often the core of what writers write about—characters who have a moral code and what they do when that code is challenged. How they act or react when the easy decisions are taken away from them, and they’re faced with a Sophie’s Choice sort of thing.”

“That’s what makes a story compelling. And that’s part of what makes your books bestsellers,” Diana said earnestly. “That and the nonstop action and that well-sketched characters. But I do have to say—I loved the scene in Blind Alley where Blue had to put on his glasses in order to see the wires so he could defuse that bomb beneath the restaurant. It just made him so real to me—not this incredibly talented superhero sort of person who’s so far removed from anyone normal.”

Teddy smiled. “I’m glad it worked for you.” Her gaze scanned the table and landed on Oscar, who’d been less vigilant about the conversation topic since it had gone off on the tangent of “fantasy men.” He realized this just as she smiled at him with those cat eyes and said, “So, I think Dr. London and I have a ghost at Stony Cape Lighthouse.”

Oscar nearly choked on his wine. Why did she have to keep calling him doctor like that? It sounded so…flirtatious.

“Really?” Trib, who’d been flitting by, halted in an exaggerated comical fashion. Resting a hand on the back of Teddy’s and Diana’s chairs, he leaned forward. “Another ghost in Wicks Hollow? Shocker.”

“Don’t you have customers to see to?” Ethan asked with a grin.

“I do, but this is much more interesting,” Trib replied with a flap of his hand. “And if you don’t spill, Teddy Mack, I’m going to out you to Maxine and Juanita. And then they’ll tell Iva, and you’ll really be in trouble. Iva loves her ghosts.”

“Who are they?” Oscar asked as Ethan said, “Ouch. That wouldn’t be good.”

Ethan looked at Oscar. “You haven’t had the pleasure, then. Lucky soul. And how does one explain Maxine and Juanita—and the rest of the Tuesday Ladies?”

“Never mind that,” Teddy said. “Oscar’s just trying to change the subject again because he doesn’t want to talk about the weird things that have been happening at the lighthouse.”

Damn. Foiled again. Oscar gave her a weak smile and lifted his champagne flute in a white-flag toast.

“Tell us. Can’t be any weirder than what happened last summer when my Aunt Jean was haunting me,” Diana said as blithely as if she’d been ordering a glass of water. She glanced at Oscar. “Don’t worry—I didn’t want to believe it at first myself.”

“But then she really had no choice because ghostly Jean began throwing books around, and she messed up her kitchen once,” Ethan said. “And that’s when Diana called me over to rescue her from the specter.”

Her eyes widened and began to shoot sapphire sparks. “That is completely not true. You never rescued me, you—” She began to laugh. “You did that on purpose.”

“I just like to see you get all stiff and prissy so I can soften you up later.”

“Oh, get a room, you two.” Trib snorted. “Some of us don’t want to live vicariously through your hot and heavy romance.”

“Why are you complaining? Did things go south with Lionel?” Diana touched his hand. “You two seemed to be getting along so well.”

“No—well, I don’t know,” Trib replied, his voice approaching a distraught whine. “He’s just been so—distracted lately. I don’t know. Anyway, forget about me—I want to hear about the ghost at the lighthouse, Teddy. Do you think it could be Stuart Millore?”

“You mean the man who jumped—or fell—off the top?” Teddy replied.

“Or was pushed,” Oscar added, and was rewarded when his housemate gave him a warm smile. His insides, dammit, lurched.

“Or was pushed. Maybe he was pushed. In fact, Oscar, wait—don’t you remember? That’s exactly what we were talking about when the door blew shut and inexplicably locked. About whether he might have been pushed. Which would make it murder,” she added unnecessarily.

The sparkle in her eyes should have made him wary—after all, she was excited over someone getting killed?—but Oscar thought he was beginning to understand how her mind worked. A little strange, but logical in its own way.

“And if there’s murder,” Ethan said, “it makes sense for a ghost to be attached to the location.”

“And for said ghost to scream bloody murder at one thirty every night in a reenactment of its dying moments as its corporeal person catapulted from the top of a lighthouse,” Teddy said, her eyes still dancing.

“Every night?” Oscar repeated weakly.

“Yes. Surely you’ve been hearing it too.” She gave him a sharp look.

Well, yes. But he didn’t realize she had been hearing it.

“Anyway, I don’t think you can deny it, Oscar. There’s a ghost haunting Stony Cape Lighthouse.”