Page 44 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

A very familiar black turtleneck.

Slowly, slightly dazed, I look up. It’s Steve Jobs.

Of course it’s Steve Jobs, and for half a second neither of us move. His hands are still holding my arms, steadying me, and I’m close enough to see the faint crease between his brows. There’s concern in his eyes — eyes that are a breathtaking, wonderful kind of blue.

“Hey,” he says quickly. “Are you all right?”

His voice is warm, and much softer than I expected.

“I . . . yes,” I say, aware that the word comes out slightly breathless, my mind still somewhat lost in the gaze of those eyes. “I think so.”

He doesn’t let go immediately, which I’m both thankful for and deeply aware of.

“You almost fell,” he says.

“Almost,” I agree. “I’m embarrassed.”

“Don’t be,” he tells me easily. “I’m diabetic. I fall all the time when my blood sugar drops.”

“I don’t have the excuse of diabetes. But I’m very glad you were here to save me all the same.”

He grins a little, then carefully releases my arms, while his hands hover nearby for a second. It’s like he’s not entirely convinced I won’t immediately collapse again. To be fair, that’s probably a good call.

Because up close, he’s even more distracting than he was across the room.

Tall. Broad shoulders. That black turtleneck doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he’s in very good shape. I shift on my feet, suddenly very aware of the awkwardness of the moment, and of the flashing pink ears on my head.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again, and I nod.

“Yes, I really am. It was just my shoes. And I’ve had a few drinks. And I haven’t eaten much today either—”

I’m babbling, and I know I am. I snap my mouth shut in an attempt to look vaguely sensible, and he stares at me wordlessly.

“Umm, anyway, thanks again for saving me,” I finally say, trying to recover the moment. “Oh, and, you know, thanks for my iCalendar too, which I actually find really useful, even if I have scheduled a daily manifestation moment from five to five past five in the morning which I can’t get rid of.”

He looks at me blankly. “What are you talking about? Why are you thanking me for your iCalendar?”

I gesture to him. “It was a joke. About your costume.”

He continues to look at me oddly. “I’m not wearing a costume.”

“Sure you are, you’re Steve Jobs—” I snap my mouth shut again as realization floods through me.

Oh God. He’s not wearing a costume. This is just what he likes to wear on a daily basis.

Well, that’s it. I’ve done it. I’ve taken a perfectly attractive man who saved me from eating the lobby floor and immediately mocked his clothes, accused him of dressing as Steve Jobs, and thanked him for inventing my phone calendar. Flawless work.

I stare determinedly at a point somewhere near his collarbone, because making eye contact now feels like a risk I’m not emotionally prepared for, and there’s a small pause.

Then . . . he actually smiles.

“You think I look like Steve Jobs?” he asks.

I blink up at him, completely thrown by the fact that he doesn’t sound offended. If anything, he sounds amused. Maybe even pleased.

“Well,” I say, suddenly flummoxed, “not like his twin or anything.” I wave a vague hand between us. “But, I mean . . . What are the odds of looking identical to someone without actually being their twin?”

“That’s easy.” Without missing a beat, he then says, “One in a trillion.”