Page 10 of Possess Me

“A second ago.” I hug myself, fighting a chill. “As I came in. I thought—” I cut off my words, realizing I have no idea what I was going to say. That I’d heard my name? That I’d felt an odd sense of being watched?

I shake my head, feeling more than a little silly. “Never mind. Ignore me.” I smile up at him. “I think my husband let me drink a little too much this evening.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “That’s a shame because your husband asked the realtor to leave a bottle of Champagne on ice. But I suppose he can drink it all by himself.”

I fight my own grin as I slide into his arms, realizing that the strange sensations that had set my skin to tingling are now only a memory. “I can probably handle one glass,” I whisper. “Besides, we have to toast the house. Champagne is almost a requirement. Champagne and sex,” I add, reaching up to tug one end of his bowtie, unraveling it in a single, smooth motion before deftly undoing the first two buttons at his collar.

“I do love the way you think.” He brushes a kiss over my lips before stepping away with a promise that he’ll be right back. I feel his absence keenly—strangely—like a sharp stab of loss coupled with fear. I’m about to call out for him, but then his shadow slides into the room, followed immediately by the man himself with a bottle of champagne and two empty flutes.

“Nikki?” He puts the bottle and glasses on a sideboard and then hurries toward me. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I laugh, the sound tinny to my ears. “Maybe I am a little spooked.” I shrug. “The house does have a history, after all.”

He brushes his fingertips down my bare arm. “Everything has a history. And I think you and I know better than anyone that your past doesn’t have to taint your present.”

I close my eyes as he pulls me toward him, and my arms go tight around him, this man who knows me so well. Who knows the demons from my past that still haunt me.

Demons he helped me fight, even while fighting his own.

We’ve survived so much, and we built something wonderful.

This house will be wonderful, too.

I draw in a breath as I step back, then smile up at him. “I think we need to explore. And drink a toast in every room.”

“Mrs. Stark,” he says, his voice teasing. “Are you intending to get me drunk and take advantage of me?”

I flutter my lashes. “I guess you are as smart as everyone says.”

He laughs, then pours us each a flute of bubbly. We toast the living area where we’re standing, a cozy space anchored by a stone fireplace and softened with worn wood floors and high, beamed ceilings.

I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in. The built-in shelves that line the walls. A vintage loveseat positioned near a coffee table. A wide picture window, beyond which the surf shimmers in the moonlight. I smile, feeling strangely at home in this unfamiliar place.

Damien takes my free hand and leads me into the charming kitchen. A vintage dining set sits in the nook by the bay window, and I imagine lazy mornings with coffee and the ocean as our backdrop. A hallway leads to the bedrooms, including a spacious master with a set of French doors that open onto a private patio.

Every room is in perfect order—dust-free and tidy, just as a vacation rental should be. But this is no typical vacation rental. Because mixed in with the generic trappings that ensure a traveler’s comfort, there’s also Hollywood memorabilia scattered throughout. Framed photos from Vivien’s most famous films line the hallway, and a small glass case in the corner of the den houses props from her movies—a sequined clutch, a feathered hat, a delicate tiara. It’s like walking through a time capsule, each piece a connection to a history that’s always fascinated me.

Still, despite the Hollywood decorations and the strange trill of sensation that had spooked me as I entered, the place feels almost generic. As if it could be the cover photo for a vacation rental catalog.

Honestly, I’m almost disappointed.

Not that I’d wanted to move into a haunted house, but I’d let myself believe that this cottage was somehow the connection between Vivien Lorainne and myself. Instead, it just feels like a house that contains a few photos and props.

And yet….

I can’t deny that something about this place feels familiar. And not. Like stepping into a memory that doesn’t belong to you. Which, of course, makes no sense whatsoever.

“Well?” Damien’s hand presses lightly on the small of my back as we return to the living area.

“It’s incredible,” I tell him, and despite that little knot of disappointment, I mean the words completely. “But you have to stop buying me presents every time you turn around. Especially such extravagant ones. People will think you’re spoiling me.”

“People would be right.” He takes my hand and leads me to the sofa. “So are you saying I shouldn’t give you the one present I still have left?”

I cross my arms as I shift on the cushion to face him better. “Um, excuse me? The journal is already mine. Hand it over.” I hold out my hand, palm up, and he reaches into his interior pocket for the small journal, then puts it in my palm so that the embossed initials — VL—are facing up.

But there’s something else, too. Whereas before, I’d only noticed Vivien’s initials, now I’m looking at those initials surrounded by an ouroboros.

“I don’t remember the snake being on the cover,” I say to Damien. “Do you?”