The three of us are members of a very exclusive club. One that most people don’t understand. Instead, when they learn what we are, they come at us with two things.
Fear.
Hate.
So we’re quiet, keep to ourselves, and live our lives.
I get home around nine from dinner with Miss Sophia and Lena. It’s been a long day. The shop was busy today, and I’m thankful. I’m making a good living at selling essential oils, herbs, lotions, and soaps. My style is whimsical and fun, perfect for tourists wandering through the French Quarter and locals alike. For so long I was just treading water, barely able to make enough to pay the bills, and have enough left over to pay myself as well.
But this past year has been fruitful, and not only can I do all those things, but I’ve hired a part-time helper as well so I can take a day or two off here and there.
I have dinner with Lena and Miss Sophia as often as our schedules allow, and one weekend a month we go to my grandmother’s house in the Bayou to relax and craft. I wasn’t able to join them for a while, but now that Shelly is working for me, I’ve been going again, and I love it.
I enjoy feeling close to Grandmamma. I don’t see her. Ever. Sometimes, as I’m waking from a dream, I can just barely hear her voice, but I haven’t seen her since the day she died.
And it frustrates me. Makes me sad.
I miss her.
I shake my head and shrug off the blue mood, shuffling through my mail. Nothing catches my interest so I toss the envelopes on the kitchen table and kick out of my boots and my jeans, and wander to the fridge to pour a glass of white wine.
I opened it last night.
It’ll be gone by tomorrow night.
The wine is crisp and dry and perfect. I carry the glass into the living room and sit on the couch, pulling my legs up under me.
I feel restless. Should I watch TV? I take a sip and wrinkle my nose. Nah.
Read a book?
Maybe.
But rather than reach for my iPad, I wake my phone up to look over the shop’s social media pages and respond to questions and comment on posts and photos of my products. Suddenly a text comes in from Charly.
I love this lavender and frankincense combo! Very relaxing.
I grin and take a sip of wine and reply: add a glass of wine and you’ll sleep like a baby.
The stillness of my house is a welcome change from the creaks and groans of the old building that houses my shop. It’s as haunted as any building I’ve ever been in, which is to be expected in a city as old and full of history as New Orleans. It’s not known as one of the most haunted cities for nothing.
But there are no spirits here in my home. I knew the minute I walked in that I was alone here, and bought it on the spot. This is the one place that my mind can be at peace.
I settle back against the cushions of my soft couch and yawn. My eyes close, and before long, I’ve drifted off to sleep.
I’m dreaming. I always know that I’m dreaming, but I can’t change the course of the dream. It’s like I’m living it and watching it like a movie at the same time.
There’s so much water! I’m in my grandmamma’s house, and the water is pouring in through windows, doors, the seams of the walls.
Everywhere.
The rooms are filling up, and her things are floating around me, even things that I either gave away or threw out long ago and it looks like it did when I was a child.
Is she here? Will I finally get to see her?
“Grandmamma?” I call out, but there’s no answer. Just so much water. It’s up to my waist now, and I can’t move. It’s heavy against me, pinning me in place. I’m not even floating.
“Help!” My head is thrashing back and forth, looking for someone to help me, but I’m alone.
And the water is rising.
There’s a beeping coming from somewhere. Maybe outside of the dream? It’s a dream! I’m not going to drown. It’s only a dream.
But the water is cold. My feet are numb now, it’s so cold. Where is everyone? Why aren’t they helping me?
“Grandmamma!” I call again. She never comes, but I hope that she’ll appear this time to help me. “You promised you’d be here!”
I’m crying now, and the water is up to my shoulders.
“Help me!”
“Wake up, Mallory.”
It’s her voice!
“Grandmamma!”
“Get to the shop. Wake up.”
I jolt out of sleep and sit up, blinking, looking around wildly. There is no one here, but I’m so cold.
“I heard you,” I say to the room. “Why can’t I see you?”
I sigh and reach for my pants. It’s four in the morning. I slept seven hours? I stare at my phone, sure that it must be wrong. It felt like I’d only been asleep for minutes.
“Weird dreams,” I mutter and shake my head. I do not want to go to the shop at four in the morning. I’ll end up staying all day.
But she said to go. And she rarely speaks to me.
Or, it could have just been a part of the dream.
I bite my lip, and decide to go check, just to be on the safe side. I live on the other side of town from the Quarter. There’s just too much history in that part of the city for me to be able to live there without going insane from all of the spiritual interference.
But at this time of the morning, it only takes me about twenty minutes to get there.
And when I walk in, it’s my dream all over again.
Or, my worst nightmare.
The shop is flooded with at least three inches of water on the floor. I can hear it rushing, but can’t see where it’s coming from until I open the small bathroom and see water pouring out of the ceiling fan.
“I don’t think that’s supposed to happen.” I sigh and prop my hands on my hips. “Thanks, Grandmamma.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket to call Beau Boudreaux, who also happens to be my landlord.
Of course, there is no answer.
The man lives upstairs, directly above this shop. Can’t he hear the water? Does he sleep like the dead?
Or maybe he’s not home.
I frown and open my mind, searching the building.
He’s home. I can feel his presence.
And he might be naked.
I immediately slam the psychic door shut and walk outside, up the wrought iron steps to his loft, and bang on the door.
“Wake up,” I mutter. “And put some pants on.”
I raise my hand to bang again, but the door is flung open and there’s Beau, rubbing sleep from his eyes, a frown on his handsome face.
He’s pulled some sweatpants on.
Thank God.
“What’s going on?” he demands.
“I have a leak,” I reply and swallow hard, willing myself to keep my eyes on his face, and not the sculpted muscles of his torso. I’ve met the man exactly twice, including right now, but what he does to my libido is ridiculous.
I’d forgotten that I have a libido.
Which is a sad statement all on its own.
“You had to wake me up at four-thirty for a leak?”
“I have three inches of water on my floor,” I reply and turn to stomp down the stairs. “Come look!”
I don’t look back as I wade back into my store. A few moments later, I hear Beau come clomping down the steps and look back as he fills the doorway with his wide shoulders. He’s tall, pushing six-and-a-half feet. His hair is dark, and his eyes are like old whiskey.
Those whiskey eyes survey the space, frowning when he sees the amount of water on the floor.
“Do you know where it’s coming from?”
“The bathroom,” I reply and lead him to it.
“The fucking ceiling fan?” He exclaims and shakes his head. “I was expecting the toilet to be overflowing. Old plumbing is unpredictable.”
“I was expecting the same, but here we are,” I say and cross my arms over my chest. He glances back at me, and hi
s eyes drop to my cleavage for just an instant before he looks me in the eye.
I don’t uncross my arms.
“I’m going to shut off the water to the building.”
“Good idea.”
He rushes back outside and a few moments later, the water slows to a small trickle, and then fast drops.
He comes back inside and looks up. “Must be a broken pipe.”
“Are you a plumber as well as a billionaire mogul?” I ask, unable to resist.
His lips twitch. “I’m good at a lot of things.”
Oh, I just bet you are.
I clear my throat. “Thanks for coming down to help me.”
“It’s my building.” He shrugs. “I’m sorry I didn’t wake up earlier to catch it.”
He brushes past me, just barely grazing my shoulder before I can move out of the way, and just like before, I don’t feel anything.
Just cool calm.
But when I glance up at him, his eyes are full of emotion, and when he looks back at me, bright lust is front and center.
I can see it, but I can’t feel it.
“Are you okay?” He’s grabbed my broom and is sweeping water out the front door to the street.
I take a deep breath.
“Fine.”
This man is . . . I don’t even know.
“He’s not for me,” I whisper as I pull another broom out of a closet and join him, pushing as much water as we can out the front door.
“I don’t think you’ll be able to open today,” he says.
“I can’t afford to close,” I reply. “I have a sale that I’ve advertised for two weeks, and this is the busiest weekend before the end of tourist season.” My shoulders drop. “I’m sure I can clean this up enough to open.”
He watches me and shakes his head.
“It’s dangerous. Customers can slip and fall.”
“Oh.” I glance about and blink tears away. What the hell? What’s up with the tears?
“Are you okay?”
“Fine.” I nod and quickly brush the tears away. “Just tired, and this was unexpected.”
He’s quiet for a moment as he watches me closely, and then he pulls his phone out of his pocket and makes a call.
“Eli? Sorry to wake you, but I need some help.”
About the Author
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author KRISTEN PROBY is the author of the bestselling With Me In Seattle, The Boudreaux, and Love Under the Big Sky series. She has a passion for a good love story and humorous characters with a strong sense of loyalty and family. Her men are the alpha type; fiercely protective and a bit bossy, and her ladies are fun, strong, and not afraid to stand up for themselves. Kristen lives in Montana, where she enjoys coffee, chocolate, and sunshine. And naps.
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Praise for the Fusion Series
“A Kristen Proby book is a guarantee of a fantastic romance. Proby always delivers when it comes to heat, heart, humor and ALL THE FEELS.”
—Lauren Blakely, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author
“No one packs as much passion and romance on each and every single page the way Kristen Proby does.”
—Jay Crownover, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author
“Kristen Proby’s stories are all sexy, swoonworthy must-reads!”
—Laura Kaye, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author
“Kristen Proby is our go-to when we want to escape, when we want a love story with a slow burn, a stellar supporting cast, and heroes that have us swooning for days.”
—Christina Lauren, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author
“Kristen Proby writes contemporary romance like no one else!”
—Monica Murphy, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author
“No one does swoony alphas, strong women, and sexy love stories like Kristen Proby. She truly knows how to write romance with heart.”
—Laurelin Paige, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author
“Kristen Proby is a master at creating hot heroes and tender romance. I love her books!"
—Jennifer Probst, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author
Also by Kristen Proby
The Fusion Series
Listen to Me
Close to You
Blush for Me
The Boudreaux Series
Easy Love
Easy with You
Easy Charm
Easy Melody
Easy for Keeps
Easy Kisses
Easy Magic
With Me in Seattle Series
Come Away with Me
Under the Mistletoe with Me
Fight with Me
Play with Me
Rock with Me
Safe with Me
Tied with Me
Breathe with Me
Forever with Me
Love Under the Big Sky Series
Loving Cara
Seducing Lauren
Falling for Jillian
Saving Grace
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
blush for me. Copyright © 2017 by Kristen Proby. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
first edition
Cover photograph © Michael Frost;
Background photograph © George Dolye/Gettyimages
Digital Edition MARCH 2017 ISBN 9780062434814
Print ISBN 978-0-06-243479-1
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