Page 91 of Ghost Hunted
“I was going to say, for your captor! That’s what you were, you know.”
“That’s what I still am.”
A shadow passes over her face and I kick myself internally for bringing it up. “What’s the nicest present you’ve ever had?” I ask her, in an attempt to change the subject.
“Hmm.” She makes a face. “I guess it was a Barbie dreamhouse.”
“Really?” I raise an eyebrow. “You’re a little old for that, aren’t you?”
“I mean, I wasn’t when I got it. I was in elementary school.”
I frown. “And you’ve never had anything nicer than that?”
“Nicer might not be the right word to describe the burns those candles left on my right ass cheek all those years ago, but... let’s say they left a lasting impression.”
“I’m glad they did.” I chuckle at the memory, then hug her at this new proof that her memory’s back. “What about since then?”
The lines in her forehead deepen. “I don’t... I don’t remember any birthdays in Ireland. Maybe that’s why it was so strange to realize how much time had passed. I don’t think I celebrated them.”
“I’m sorry, baby,” I murmur, holding her against me. “That’s a lot of presents you missed, isn’t it? But I’ll make it up to you, Lia. You’ll get your eighteen presents, I promise.”
“Uh uh.” She shakes her head. “No, Logan. You don’t owe me eighteen presents.”
“Oh?”
“You owe me nineteen. And I’m holding you to it.”
I laugh again. “I love you, little ghost girl, do you know that? I love all 75 of you.”
It’s her turn to look confused.
“Your 74 freckles and you,” I add.
“Oh. That’s corny.”
“The kids call it cringe these days, you know.”
By now, she’s finished eating her bagel, and I lick each of her fingers clean before licking her face.
“You’re so slobbery.”
“But you love it, don’t you?”
She avoids answering, instead asking, “How about you? Has Damien gotten better at giving you presents?”
“Nah. But that’s different. I don’t need presents; you do. You need to be taken care of and spoiled and...”
“You need it just as much! I’ll give you nineteen presents too.”
“Please don’t,” I say in mock horror. “I want to live to see next year.”
“Logan! Just for that, I’m giving you twenty!”
She squeals as I pull her down on the mattress, straddling her hips, and tickling her until she gasps for breath.
“Logan! Don’t! I’ll only give you fifteen! Okay, fine, ten! Logan! Sto-o-op...”
Her face is splotchy red by the time I let up and reward her with a kiss.
