Spell of Summoning (15 page)

He shouldered his bag, took Buster by the leash, and then held the front door open for her. He drove them across town to Mi Cabaña, a nice little Mexican place he’d been to once.

Hopping out of the vehicle, he added, “You’re welcome to come and serve up burgers at Sparky’s anytime you want.”

“I appreciate it, but…” She fiddled with the passenger-side air vent, opening and closing it. “I won’t be in the area much longer.”

Holden’s gut twisted as he settled Buster in the backseat and then offered his hand to help her climb down. “Where are you going?” He hardly knew this girl, but he didn’t want her to leave. Not yet.

“Raleigh.”

That was at least two hours away. “When?”

“The first of next month.”

“Why?” God, he sounded like a child. Embarrassed, he turned away and hustled for the restaurant’s entrance. He held the door for her, and soft, Spanish music and a cloud of sweet-smelling steam welcomed them. “Sorry. It’s none of my business.”

“No, it’s okay. The truth is I’ve outgrown the real estate business in this town. I’m ready to take the next step and sell those million-dollar houses in Raleigh.”

“Right.” He signaled the hostess for a table for two.

Rebecca had yanked him right out of his comfort zone, forcing him to meet people and be seen in public, to care about someone other than himself. And she was leaving? He didn’t have any ideas about how to stay friends with her after they stopped the summoning spell, but he wanted to try.

And he had no clue how to express those feelings to her.

Instead, Holden grunted, “That’s good. Money is important.”

Rebecca flinched. “It’s not all about money.”

The hostess seated them at a small, romantic table near a window. But Holden had never felt less romantic. “Right. I get it. Good for you.”

“Hey.” She leaned in, forcing him to look at her. “Don’t get weird. I need to make a living, you know. Just like you do.”

Bullshit. She did way more than make a living. She sacrificed too much to make sure her family had it all. Nothing wrong with taking care of your family. He’d had one once. But Rebecca took it too far.

That slightly uncomfortable desire to protect her flared. Holden not only wanted to protect her from the spell, but from herself, too. “Are you building a fortune for your own happiness or so you can better support your sister and your dad?”

“Whoa.” She scowled, her face a mask of insult. “Out of line, buddy. That really is none of your business.”

Their waiter approached, pad in hand. “Anything to drink?”

“Two sweet teas,” he said, and the other man left.

Holden fired back at her, “You’re not his wife. You’re not her mother.”

“Stop,” Rebecca said, raising both hands in a plea for peace. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. You’ve met my dad. Are you honestly saying I shouldn’t care about him?”

“No.” He tried to boil it down to the very basic kernel of truth as he saw it. “I’m asking if you’re happy working hard to put your sister through college and buy your dad’s car? Is that what you want out of life?”

“Screw you.”

“Because—”

She tried to leave, but he yanked her back into her chair. Eyes widened in shock, she barely kept her chair on all four legs.

He barreled ahead, unable to stop. “Who is taking care of you?”

 “Screw you,” she said again but with less venom. “They need me.”

“What do
you
need?”

“Stop it, Holden.” She bowed her head and covered her face. “You don’t know me.”

“You’re giving too much away,” he said quietly. This woman required at least one person to have her interests at heart. It might never be him, but someone had to protect her.

The waiter served two tall glasses of sweet tea. “Are you ready to order?”

“No,” Rebecca sniffed.

“Not now.”

The waiter ambled away.

Holden wanted her to look at him, but she kept her eyes averted. Sniffling, she backed her chair out of his reach but didn’t leave. Yet.

Finally, she raised her gaze and speared him with very hurt, very angry eyes. “Why don’t you manage your own restaurant?”

Grams peered at him from the other side of the bar. “Tell her,” she said gently. “Tell her what you’re so scared of.”

“I’m not scared,” Holden whispered.

* * *

“Okay,” Becca said. Fine. He wasn’t scared. “Then what is it?” When Holden didn’t answer, she added, “You’re smart enough. Physically able. You have the free time. I can’t figure it out.”

His jaw clenched as he stared at the far wall, the one covered in sun-and-moon folk art. His expression had closed down, and her patience waned. Her personal choices were not usually a topic of conversation at the dinner table, and Rebecca resented his evaluation of her.

“It’s funny how none of your deep psychological insight is directed at yourself,” she said, her voice unusually sharp. “When did your grandpa pass away?”

She didn’t expect Holden to answer. Then he said, “Two years ago.”

“You’ve owned his diner for two years? But you’ve never worked there?”

“I did before he died.”

“You hate it,” she decided.

“No.” He swiveled and faced her, a crease between his brows. “I love it there. I always have.”

“Then why—” She shook her head. Maybe a guy who communicated with dead people wasn’t ever going to make complete sense. “Forget it. I feel like we’re talking in circles.”

“My grandpa was a good man. No, a
great
man. I’m not. I could never do what he did.”

Sadly, she saw some of her own issues in that sentiment. Her mother wasn’t a great person, by any stretch, but Becca had spent her whole life trying to live up to some fantastic ideal of womanhood because of her.

Rebecca wasn’t above self-reflection. She knew she worked too hard. She knew she babied her dad and sister too much. But it had never seemed like a problem. Until Holden.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a good man.” He really was. Holden wasn’t being an asshole when he said she should slow down. She couldn’t be angry at him, because he was right. It hurt to face her faults, but he was right.

“No, I’m not.” Holden’s voice rose. “I sit locked up in their house all day. I don’t talk to anyone. I don’t do anything for anyone else. I’m a selfish piece of shit.”

“That’s not true.”

Rebecca stood, trying to loom over him and get in the final word. He stood to his full height, trumping her. So she stepped up onto her chair and scowled down at him.

He cracked the tiniest smile.

“No, no,
Senorita
,” someone called from the bar. “Down,
por favor
.”

Holden wrapped his arm around her waist and set her on the ground. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. I’m worried about you.”

She could handle hurt feelings. One thing she couldn’t stomach was him believing he was a screw-up. “Listen to me. You are a good person. There’s no question about it. You take care of Buster. And you’re helping me, even though you don’t owe me anything.”

“I’m hanging out with you,” he countered, “but I’m not actually doing anything.”

“That’s not true.” She returned to her seat. “You’re helping me.”

He didn’t look like he’d ever accept that one, but she’d keep working on it.

“Waiter?” Holden signaled the server, who ambled over. “An order of ten tacos with chips and avocado dip. To go.” He dropped several bills onto the table. “Please hurry.”

* * *

Rebecca stood like a girl who’d never had a boy in her room before, nervous and hyperaware of all he saw and judged and assumed. This awful little place wasn’t like her office building. She’d invested zero money or time into design and decor. It had bare, eggshell-colored walls, beige carpet as rough as sandpaper, and hardly any furniture beyond the necessities.

This was not the impression she wanted Holden to have of her. She wished he could see her real house, the one she’d designed from the floors up and then been forced to sell.

“I’m gonna Google Damian Arasmus.” Holden held up his computer bag.

“Okay. I’ll get Buster some water.” Merely to have something to do with her hands.

Taking more time than it actually required, Becca picked through her bowl selection. In the end, she chose a ceramic mixing bowl, filled it half full with tap water, and set it in front of Buster’s nose. He sniffed it, dipped his muzzle in for a dainty sip, and fell asleep on the living room floor. His golden coat looked so soft and sleek. She reached out and petted his head. He opened his eyes, flopped his tail once, and then went back to sleep.

“Tell me again,” Becca said, straightening. “Why do we need Damian, who we don’t know anything about, to lead a séance when you could do it for real?”

“I’ve never called a spirit,” Holden said. “Grams came to me.”

“I trust you a lot more than I trust Damian.”

“I have a good feeling about him.”

“That makes one of us,” she grumbled.

Holden set up his laptop at the small kitchen table and ran a search for Damian Arasmus in the Auburn, North Carolina area. Up came his website with a sedate picture of him dressed in a white button-down and a black suit jacket that didn’t reflect the ultra caffeinated version of him she’d met. Beside the picture was his bio.

Becca leaned over Holden’s shoulder, but it was difficult to concentrate. He smelled like the outdoors—earth and rain and sky. She wanted to touch him, but that would lead, very quickly, to more touching. And kissing. And, well, she wouldn’t throw over all her well-laid plans because a cute guy kissed her.

She focused her attention on the computer screen. Damian’s banner read “I specialize in helping deceased persons find everlasting peace.” Below that was a quote from a past client: “Damian is a pro. He came to our home and did exactly what he promised—made contact with our Meemaw. We can’t thank him enough.” It ended with his contact info.

“What’s a spiritualist again?” Rebecca whispered.

“A person who communicates with the dead.”

“Like you?”

“Yes.”

She backed away. “I have this awful feeling he’s going to show up in a cape and with a crystal ball under his arm.”

Holden peered up at her. The tacos must have improved his mood, like they’d improved hers, because he smiled playfully at her. “He might bring a crystal ball,” he said, “but no cape.”

She liked this funnier Holden. A lot. “If he puts on a cape at any time during the evening, you owe me twenty dollars.”

“Okay. And if he doesn’t, you owe
me
twenty dollars.” He grinned. “I hope you stopped by the ATM recently.”

The doorbell chimed.

Becca grabbed a bottle of wine from the kitchen as Holden answered the door. She tucked the bottle under one arm, took hold of three long-stemmed glasses, and poked her head into the foyer. Damian wasn’t wearing a cape of any kind, but sported a green, collared shirt and tan slacks. When Damian passed him pulling a wheeled crate, Holden gestured to the other man’s shoulders and then rubbed his thumb across the pads of his fingers. Becca burst out laughing.

“Ma’am?” Damian glanced nervously from Holden to Becca.

“Sorry.” She clenched her jaw. “It’s the tension. Here.” She led him into the kitchen nook and offered him a seat at the little round table. “Let’s have a drink. And help yourself to chips and dip.” Damian shook his head at the food. “I’d like to hear what you have planned tonight.”

Holden uncorked the bottle and poured each of them a glass of very good cabernet before eating another taco. Becca took a long sip of wine. A heat spread through her fingers and toes and warmed her cheeks.

“Thank you.” Damian didn’t touch his wine but pulled out a file folder. “First things first. This is a simple waiver. It says I’m not responsible if anyone feels ill or injured after our séance.”  

Becca was familiar with real estate contracts, but she’d never signed anything so short and to the point. If she fainted or threw up or suffered a seizure, she wasn’t to blame Mr. Arasmus. Sure. She passed the pen to Holden, who signed his name below hers.

Damian produced a second manila file folder. “I told you I’d research your area.” He bounced in his seat. “Well, I found something.”

He spread out three articles printed off news reporting websites. The largest headline, and the one she saw first, read “Murder-Suicide at Rolling Falls.” The name of her apartment complex.

Becca snatched the page off the table to read the details. “Where was this?” She scanned the half dozen short paragraphs while Damian tapped a staccato rhythm on her table with a pen.

“This happened in apartment 112,” she announced. “That’s on the other side of the complex. I live in 54.” She let the page glide back onto the table. Was he seriously linking a random crime to her demon spell? Why not call it Lincoln’s ghost while he was at it?

“This is not an exact science,” Damian explained. “The important thing is that we found a probable source for the unhappy presence I felt in your bedroom.”

“But—”

Holden squeezed her knee under the table.
Hard
. She tried to disguise her squeal with a clumsy cough.

“Sorry.” She kicked at Holden and missed. “Please go on.”

“Well, that’s the gist.” Damian shuffled his papers, looking flustered despite his smile. “I’ll call on these restless spirits and encourage them to go on to the other side.”

“How?” Holden asked, leaning forward. “How will you call on them?”

She thought of his grandmother perpetually haunting him. She must be in the room, watching, listening, and maybe whispering in Holden’s ear. But Damian didn’t see her? Not a good sign.

Damian nodded and sat back as if he’d been waiting for this question. “I light three blessed candles, and I go into a trance in which my consciousness hovers between our two realities—the realm of the living and the world of the dead.”

“Is there a spell?” Holden asked, looking unsatisfied with Damian’s answer. Their magics were different, assuming Damian had any at all, which Becca was beginning to doubt. Holden and Dani had cast a spell with words and a spell circle and the help of friendly spirits. Damian didn’t mention anything that reminded her of the two spells she’d already seen.