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“Thank you.” She glances beyond me at the graves, headstones spreading beneath live oaks and hanging moss. “Is there anywhere with less direct sunlight? My body has apparently decided thermoregulation is optional.”
“House.”
She follows my gaze toward the old caretaker house beyond the cemetery. The white colonial rises behind a line of magnolias, shaded by a deep porch. From here, only the upper windows and dark roof are visible above the graves.
Her grip tightens around the bottle. “You’re sure? I don’t want to impose.”
“You’re overheated.”
“I’m also perfuming for the first time, being pursued by amateur hydration enthusiasts, and standing in a cemetery with a man known for talking to the dead. I’m no longer sure what’s socially acceptable.”
From somewhere behind the Martin family crypt, a man laughs.
Pepper freezes.
The sound is faint, but clear enough to carry through the trees.
She looks toward the crypt, then at me. “Was that a person?”
“Mostly.”
In Sweetheart Haven, mostly counts more often than outsiders like. We accept the quirks like everyone else accepts local weather.
The word earns me a sharp stare.
A breeze stirs the Spanish moss. Beyond the graves, a pale figure crosses the narrow path toward us. Brown hair. Thin shoulders. White shirt. Then the sun passes through him.
Pepper’s water bottle slips again. This time, it stops in midair before I can reach it. The steel container hangs beside her knee, tilts upright, and rises slowly into her waiting hand.
Her jaw drops.
The bottle settles into her palm.
A crisp apple scent flickers through the heat, followed by sea salt and clean linen.
Ezra’s voice carries from farther down the path. “You really should consider a better clip.”
Pepper turns so quickly the scarf in her hair shifts sideways.
No one stands behind her.
Her eyes travel over the nearest headstones and the shaded path, searching for the source of the voice. “Hello?”
“Hi.” The answer comes from her left.
She turns again.
Ezra appears beside an angel monument, one shoulder braced against the stone. He looks handsomely devilish leaning there. His white button-down sleeves are rolled to his elbows, exposing his muscular forearms. Even at rest, his lean body looks sensual. Brown hair falls across his forehead. His pale face catches the mottled light, and his blue eyes gleam with interest.
Pepper studies him with the concentration of a scientist observing a new species.
Ezra smiles.
Then the angel’s carved wing becomes visible through his chest.
Pepper presses the cold bottle against her cheek. “All right,” she says slowly. “That is new.”
Ezra looks down at himself. “For you or me?”
