Haunted by You, page 1
Haunted by You
Liza Jonathan
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
19. Three months later
Untitled
Prologue
The Real People and Places in Haunted by You
Acknowledgments
About the Author
This book is a work of fiction. All events depicted here are fictional. All real people mentioned in this book have been included with their permission and have agreed to appear as themselves and be fictionalized as part of this work. Real locations mentioned in this book are public spots or events, or have been included here with permission.
Copyright 2019 by Liza Jonathan Excerpt from The Charmed One Copyright 2019 by Liza Jonathan
All rights reserved. In accordance with the US Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes) prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at readlizajonathan@gmail.com. Self-published by Liza Jonathan Romances. For more information, visit www.lizajonathan.com
First edition, September 25, 2019
ebook: ISBN978-1-951209-00-1 /Print: ISBN978-1-951209-01-8/ Library of Congress ID: 2019911006
Attention Bookstores: this book is available wholesale on IngramSpark. Libraries may order this book on Overdrive, Library Direct, and most major platforms where books to libraries are sold.
Created with Vellum
1
The Company Perk Coffee Shop
NuLu District,
Downtown Louisville, Kentucky
* * *
Alex Morehouse took one look at his calendar app and muttered a little prayer to the gods of caffeine. They clearly weren’t listening.
No, nothing could summon his professional mojo today, not even the exceptionally good coffee at The Company Perk. Draining the last drops from his cup, he groaned as he scrolled through the endless rows of neat, color-coordinated appointment blocks his staff had seen fit to schedule. So many meetings sat on his agenda, they’d practically conquered, colonized, and decided to reproduce in there.
Jesus, there’s not a cup of coffee big enough to get me through this day.
Disgusted, he tossed his glasses down on the giant stack of spreadsheets littering his booth and rubbed his bleary eyes, wishing he hadn’t been up working into the wee hours last night. Ah yes, the price of leadership—isn’t that what Dad always used to say? Now fifty-five, the lucky bastard had retired early to a Florida golf course community, while Alex had become the third generation to lead Morehouse and Wilder CPAs, one of the largest accounting firms in the South. And at just thirty years old, he was grateful for the opportunity. Mostly.
He bent his head back to his work, but a prickling sense of awareness crept along the back of his neck. He couldn’t escape the feeling that someone was watching him.
Hastily putting his glasses back on, he scanned the coffee shop to find a barista he hadn’t seen before behind the counter, waving to get his attention.
Damn…look at her.
The woman tucked her long, sleek black hair behind her ear and held up an empty cup. For a moment, he was struck motionless, mesmerized by her flashing eyes and fire engine-red lipstick. Then, God help him, she quirked those plush red lips into a lopsided grin.
All the air left his lungs in a long exhale, as if he suddenly forgot how to take his next breath. Finally snapping back to his senses, he realized the woman was pointing to the empty cup in her hand and mouthing the words, You want another one?
Yes. Yes, I do.
He grinned back stupidly at the woman, barely managing a nod. Great, now he was robbed of the ability for speech, apparently. Feeling a little pissed at his sudden lack of chill, he finally summoned enough presence of mind to point to the specials board and mouth the words To go. After a few more attempts at charades, the cute barista divined that he wanted today’s featured brew, black. Happy to have understood him, she bit her lip, then leveled the full force of her dazzling, megawatt smile at him. He stifled the urge to sigh dreamily.
And that annoyed him—because this whatever-it-was wasn’t at all like him. He’d never been the kind of man to pant after women. He didn’t need to. Women seemed to like him well enough. Over the years, he’d had a careful string of relationships with pretty, accomplished girlfriends, all of them fizzling out amicably and on their own accord.
But had he ever, even once, seen a total stranger and had that crackling, saw-her-from-across-a-crowded-room feeling?
No.
He really hadn’t, had he?
And he had to admit—he kinda liked it.
Man oh man, the way she’d smiled at him. Had she felt that little zing too? Being careful not to stare at her like some kind of creeper, he stole another lingering glance, checking her out as she glided around effortlessly behind the counter. No, when it came to this woman, “cute” definitely didn’t cut it. Mmm, she was gorgeous, compelling even, with a pixie face, her dark, glossy hair worn with a skiff of bangs and a bright streak of purple right down the front. Interesting. Maybe if he was lucky, she’d bring over the coffee to him herself, and he could get her talking for a little bit. Maybe he could get to know her, and see if her personality was just as fascinating as her look.
Smiling over this unexpected improvement in his day, he bent his head back to his work, absently twirling his grandfather’s square gold cufflinks, clasped dutifully on his Brooks Brothers shirt. He bobbed his head a little to the rock music thumping out overhead, trying, and failing, to get his mind back on the firm’s monthly accounts receivable summary while he waited.
Fortunately, it was no time before said cute barista was back at his booth.
“So,” she sighed, all brisk efficiency, “I have a tall black Peruvian roast to go for the gentleman.” She turned her tablet computer around so he could see the charge. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”
He desperately wanted to say something clever, or interesting, or memorable. But his usual, easy charm had deserted him. Just being this close to her made his throat go dry. He almost laughed out loud at how ridiculous he was being. His mind spun with what to request, to keep her talking.
“Scones,” he finally garbled out. “Can I have three dozen?”
She cocked an eyebrow, and popped her hand on her hip. “Three dozen. You must be hungry.”
“I’m taking them back to the office. Though, your baked goods here are so delicious, I could probably manage it.”
She grinned, brightening up a little at the compliment. “Sullivan University’s culinary students. They only make the best. But I don’t have three dozen. Tell you what, though. I could do a dozen scones, a dozen cinnamon bagels, and a dozen bananas foster muffins. That should be a crowd pleaser. Can you do that?”
He nodded, and she trotted off to go fill his order. That’s when he noticed she was wearing a pair of the sexiest black stilettos he’d ever seen—the expensive kind with the red soles. It was certainly an odd choice of footwear for a woman on her feet selling coffee.
But yet she balanced like a gazelle on those sky-high heels as she walked, commanding the floor with confident grace. And if the shoes weren’t enough to do him in, she had a tattoo of flowering vines that snaked up the side of her lean, shapely calf and disappeared under her hemline. He sighed for real this time.
An alert pinged on his smart watch, and he reluctantly tore his attention away. “Monday morning partner meeting in ten minutes.” He groaned, and began stuffing his printouts back into their folders, shutting down his computer, and loading his messenger bag.
Before he’d had a chance to formulate some kind of witty repartee, the cute barista was back at his table with two big totes full of pastry. She set them down on top of his bag.
“All right, sir, that will be—”
But she didn’t get to finish her sentence, because one of the totes toppled over. Muffins tumbled all over the table, knocking over his full cup of coffee like a bowling pin.
And in a textbook-perfect execution of Murphy’s Law, the top popped off, drenching him chest to hips with a spectacular spray of steaming hot coffee. Every last drop of that tall cup had soaked straight into his clothes.
“Shit!” he sputtered, jumping out of the booth.
“Oh, no-no-no, that coffee was hot! I’m so sorry!” the barista cried, round eyed with dismay.
“No, it’s okay.” he winced, trying to hold his soaked shirt away from his body. “It’s not that bad.” He was lying, of course. His skin was stinging like a bitch.
She gave him an incredulous look, and shook her head, but didn’t call him on his clumsy attempt to be noble. “Man, I got you good.” She frowned. “Oh god, I think I just ruined this beautiful suit.” Whipping out a damp table rag, she desperately tried dabbing it, but her best efforts only made the edges of the stain dingy and wet.
Disgusted now, she threw down
And that was when he saw the girl—really saw her. And all thoughts of his poor stained clothes slipped away. She was clearly no simple barista and no simple girl. She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. A tiny little thing, she couldn’t have been more than five foot two. But her style magnified her in every way, her presence practically filling the room. Her eyes flashed with a fiery, impossible combination of green and brown and gold. The sleeveless black dress she wore was designer sharp and professional, yet still managed to skim every last curve of her tight little body just enough. With her smock off now, he reeled from the impact of her stunning, smokin’-hot tattoos—two full sleeves of bright, artful ink that started right past her shoulders and wound their way down to a delicate point at the third knuckle of each hand.
Sweet
Merciful
Jesus.
“You know what? Come with me to the back,” she huffed. “I can’t take care of you out here.”
He blinked, trying desperately to summon his faculties. He’d been so busy soaking in the sight of her that he was almost surprised to find her standing there with his untucked shirt balled up in her towel-covered fists.
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in.“Yeah, right,” he nodded. Disentangling himself from her a little reluctantly, he helped her gather up his things and followed her to the kitchen.
She showed him to a small, well-organized galley-style space that was crammed to the last square inch with commercial appliances.
She motioned for him to let her take off his jacket, and she folded it up with all his other stuff on the stainless steel counter. His silk tie had pretty much bit the dust, so he took it off too. She hurried to fetch clean table rags, soaking them with soapy water.
He took the moment to examine the place. The room was deserted. But whoever designed this operation knew what they were doing, arming it to the teeth with every kind of kitchen tool lined up in orderly rows, and large commercial mixers standing at attention. Soon she came back to him with a sopping wet cloth in her hand and began scrubbing away at his chest with determination. “God, I really am sorry about this,” she moaned. “These stains are awful.”
“It happens. I can hardly hold it against you,” he murmured, and tried not to suck in a noisy breath as she undid some of his buttons. She wormed her hand underneath his shirt, so she could scrub it more easily.
Biting her lip again in concentration, she continued with her scrubbing. But finally she let out an exasperated sigh and threw down her rag. “This is pointless. Your shirt is soaked. Your pants are soaked. Even your undershirt is demolished. You’re just going to have to take it all off.”
“Excuse me?” he stammered.
She grinned. “Relax. I have a T-shirt and a pair of shorts back here that should fit. Lucky for you, a chotzke guy came by yesterday to try to sell me on logoed merch for the shop. He left me a sample men’s t-shirt and drawstring shorts that should fit.”
Before he could open his mouth to protest, she had emerged from her little kitchen office with the clothing in hand. She handed it to him, and stood there looking at him expectantly.
He was kinda paralyzed for a minute, staring back at her. Did she seriously want him to strip? Right here? She crossed her arms. “Well?”
Okay, so there was his answer. He swallowed hard, and started undoing his cufflinks. “I can just go home like this and change. Really.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’ll stain the heck out of your car seats. Besides, I feel terrible about all this, and I want to personally ensure your suit comes back as good as new. I know a cleaner that’s a wizard with stains. If it doesn’t come out, I’ll replace the suit.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know. But I’m gonna.” She motioned to him to continue undressing. “Go on.”
He hesitated for a second, feeling strangely shy, but then he unbuttoned the shirt and handed it to her. Her eyes glittered a little bit as she looked back at him, and the beginnings of a blush crept over her face.
Could it be she she’s as attracted to me as I am to her? Could I be that lucky?
Deciding to press his luck, he silently sent up a prayer of thanks that he’d been hitting the gym a lot lately. He smirked a little, crossed his hands, and yanked off his undershirt by the hem, pulling it over his head nice and slow. She laid the soggy thing on the counter when he handed it to her, and before Alex could put the new shirt on, she’d crossed to him and was wiping down his bare chest with the soapy rag.
“Your chest—it’s red from the spill,” she gasped, looking up at him with concern. “Does it hurt? Does it feel like it’s burning?”
Alex couldn’t answer her for a minute. He was too caught up in the feeling of her light touches on his skin, and the scent of coconut shampoo, coffee, and baked goods that was clinging to her skin.
“No.” He nodded, trapping her hand under his. “I’m not burned.”
She blushed for real now, pulled her hand away, and turned around so he could get rid of his pants.
“So, since you’re undressing in my kitchen, I suppose I should introduce myself,” she called back over her shoulder. “I’m Harper Castellano. I run this place.”
“Oh, so you’re the manager?” he answered, as he hopped into the shorts.
“Yes, I guess that’s true. But I’m really the managing executive for this building. My father, Carmine Castellano, owns the New Jersey construction firm that bought the property, restored it, and built out the luxury loft homes upstairs.”
“So you’re running the coffee shop for your father’s company, then?”
“Yeah. And I’m the sales manager for all the units. And the marketing manager for the building. And construction supervisor for the restoration, too.”
Impressive. Harper Castellano was clearly the whole package, with beauty, intelligence and drive to spare. He pulled the clean T-shirt over his head. “I’m Alex Morehouse, by the way. And you can turn back around now.”
When her gaze landed back on him, she dissolved into a fit of giggles.
He looked down. “Come on. I can’t be that bad, can I?”
“I’m sorry, it’s just the shirt,” she guffawed.
He pulled it out to get a better look, and groaned.
It was tie-dyed in none-too-subtle rainbow colors. In the center was the shop’s coffee cup logo, with the slogan “Get Your Grind On.”
He raised an eyebrow, and she just laughed harder.
“I swear. The slogan was not my idea. You know how salesmen get. Sex sells, blah-blah- blah. I’m really sorry. It’s better than going out into the street naked, right?”
“Barely,” he grimaced.
“The argyle socks and Italian loafers really make the look. You’ll turn heads wherever you go.”
They both snickered and looked each other in the eyes a beat or two longer than they should have. He started consolidating all his gear again. “So, um. I suppose I should get going. I’ve got a meeting.”
“Oh, really? Where do you work?”
“Morehouse and Wilder CPAs. It’s up the way.”
“Oh, yeah, I’ve seen it. You’ve got a beautiful building. Great location.”
“It’s a family business. My grandfather founded it.”
“So you’re not the Wilder one, then?”
He chuckled. “No.” He fished out a card and handed it to her. “But I can be wilder. Just depends on the circumstances.”
Harper smiled appreciatively and tapped the card to her lips. “I’ll keep this on hand. Maybe we’ll need your help. Our accountants could probably use some local expertise dealing with Kentucky tax laws.”
He stopped and smiled at her. “You can call me for anything, anything at all,” he found himself saying. Another weak-ass answer. But when he gazed into those big hazel eyes, all coherent thought fled his brain. And he really did need to go. “So, uh, you always work here in the mornings? I’ll see you around?” he finally managed to say.
