Ghosts of Boyfriends Past by Vivi Andrews

Author:Vivi Andrews
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
Publisher: Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
Published: 2012-01-06T16:00:00+00:00

Mark was reasonably certain Biz was drunk off her cute little ass.

The slurred speech was a good clue. The way she clung to his front like wallpaper as they swayed to the vaguely musical sounds of the band was another hint. But the kicker was the look in her eyes. The gooey, dreamy, completely unguarded look that made his knees wobble in a distinctly unmanly way every time he saw it.

He was a definite fan of that look. And the Parish Cocoa that had put it there.

“You have to let me go,” she slurred up at him, her arms twined around his neck like clinging vines. “It’s for your own good.”

“Let me worry about my own good. You just hang onto me.” He didn’t think she’d stay upright without the support, and he loved the feel of her body melting against his. What they were doing barely qualified as dancing, but the festival was winding down and those few who hung around were just as plastered—and plastered to one another—as they were.

“Can’t.” She shook her head sadly. “Gotta let you go,” she said, though her arms stayed tangled around him.

Mark had seen survivor’s guilt before. He’d met people with unusual coping mechanisms for the tragedies life handed them, but Biz was different. And not just because she believed the ghosts of her dead exes took care of her.

He’d been trying to put his finger on exactly what it was that was so special about her, exactly what it was that drew him so hard, but her indefinable allure remained undefined. As if it changed as readily as she did.

She was such a peculiar mix of optimism and doom and gloom—her world view was locked into place in so many ways, assigning fate the upper hand, but hope kept leaking in around the edges.

Mark loved the contradictions. Biz was the most interesting story he’d ever found.

And she was an adorable drunk. At first he’d gotten the feeling she was trying to work up the guts to tell him something, but from one cup of Parish Cocoa to the next she’d bypassed liquid courage and stumbled straight into the point where seriousness was a concerted effort.

She frowned up at him with exaggerated concern. “I don’t want you to be the fourth ghost.”

“I won’t be.” Because there was no such thing as ghosts. He smiled reassuringly.

She reached up with her forefinger and tucked the tip into the divot on his cheek. “Dimples of Doom,” she muttered, as the last squeaks from the clarinet player faded.

Half the musicians had already departed, and now the final few shuffled toward their instrument cases and began packing up for the night. Biz continued to sway against his front, oblivious to the lack of music.

“Looks like the party’s over,” he said softly as the remaining couples began to disperse.

Biz closed her eyes and dropped her head against his chest, humming, “Mm-hmm,” and continuing to sway.

A chill breeze touched the back of his neck above his collar, but the

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