“Here? In the cellar?”
“Here in the cellar, where I’ll make you mine.” With one hand, Henry pinned his wrists above his head, shoved his pants to the base of his ass. “You’re lubed.” In his ear. “You anticipated this.”
Cameron shoved his ass against the rigid outline of Henry’s erection. “I hoped.”
Under the covers, Cameron furiously jerked his aching length.
Oh, to be brave. To go after what he wanted . . .
Monday the following week, Cameron worked with one eye glued to his door in case Henry made another startling appearance, if only to collect his socks. He didn’t.
Five o’clock. Six o’clock. Seven o’clock.
Cameron paced his office. Waiting for a man he barely knew was pointless. Never, in all the books he’d read, did the hero make progress by idly waiting.
He drew out the box of Smarties and ate not two, but three of the candy-coated chocolate pieces. There. Not entirely predictable.
He snuck downstairs. Most people had left for the day, but a light glowed under the door of the costume design room, and Cameron knocked and entered.
Large tables and sewing machines and pinned costumes on mannequins filled the spacious room. The open window mixed cool spring air with the heavy scent of laundry detergent.
Olivia glanced up and the whirring of her sewing machine stopped. “Putting the finishing touches on Harry’s breeches. Sorry, did you need to lock up?”
“Brandon’s locking up, you have time. You’re busy. I can come back another day—”
“How can I help?”
He worried his bottom lip. “You said you knew Henry? Do you know how I might contact him? I have something of his.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t have his number. We were never quite so close.”
Oh. “No email address?”
“Sorry.”
“Last name, maybe?”
“That I have. Tilney.”
“Tilney?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Like the Tilney manse, Tilney?” Everyone in Port Ratapu knew the Tilney manse, the neo-Gothic stone mansion no sane kid dared approach. Only the bravest touched the wrought-iron gates to claim infamy for the school year.
The closest he’d gotten was the graveyard that backed the property. By accident. He’d lost his way in the pine-rich town belt when he was thirteen. It’d been winter. Dark. He’d tripped over a pinecone and rolled down the hill.
He pushed to his feet, covered in pine needles, a sea of gravestones before him.
A howling wind carrying a haunted wail shot his heart to his throat. The sound drew nearer, nearer.
He shivered at the flash of movement behind a foreboding mausoleum.
Had that been a figure? Had it been hazy? Transparent?
Oh God, a ghost!
His limbs shook, protesting as he forced them to run. His shoulder bag snagged on a cross. Another wail. He hesitated. Couldn’t turn back. He abandoned the bag—including the blood-and-tears-draft of his first screenplay—and raced into the thick woods. Twigs snapped behind him. A dead boy’s voice called out to him. Wait, wait, wait . . .
Cameron never looked back.
“The very Tilney,” Olivia said, bringing him sharply back. “I’m not sure if they still live in the manse, but they used to.”
“I’m sorry. They used to live in the Tilney manse?”
“I take it the lore at your school was that the manse was haunted?”
“It is haunted.”
Olivia laughed. “Perhaps the place is worth revisiting with adult eyes. It’s a ten-minute hike through the town belt. You could see how harmless it is.”
Cameron glanced out a large window toward a hill of navy ink woods. “Tonight’s a full moon, Ms. Collins.”
Another laugh. Did she think he was joking?
“I don’t need to see Henry that badly.”
“Suit yourself.”
He gulped, wished her goodnight, and backed out of the room.
A pair of unreturned socks and some unanswered questions weren’t the end of the world. No hero needed for this particular mystery.
In fact, he’d stop thinking of Henry Tilney altogether.
“Did you ever sneak up to the Tilney manse?”
It was Saturday, and the week had been excruciating. Slow at work. Lake and Knight had left for Europe. And Cameron hadn’t stopped contemplating a visit to the Tilney manse.
Brandon breast-stroked through their backyard pool, where Cameron sat kicking his feet through the water. The afternoon sunshine was warm enough to warrant a dip, but Cameron didn’t dare plunge in.
Brandon jumped onto the edge next to him, wet trunks and a goose-bumped torso. At thirty, he was in great shape. Cameron hoped it was genetic.
“The haunted house?” Brandon asked. “Seemed like silly nonsense to me.”
“It didn’t scare you?”
“I never gave it much thought.”
“Oh.”
“Why?”
“No reason.” A ghostly breeze waked the surface, and Cameron shivered. He’d never told anyone about his . . . encounter in the graveyard. He’d feared if he did, ghosts would silence him forever. So he’d prayed aloud that he’d keep their secret, as long as they never hurt the last of his family.
It’d seemed to work.
“. . . Cameron? Hello? What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“Oh. Um. Not much. Will you still visit me on the weekends when I don’t live here? If I don’t have a pool?”