Chapter 4
1149 Words
The man’s smirk deepened, and his towel shifted slightly as he leaned lazily against the doorframe, water still dripping from his hair and sliding down the ridges of his abs. The droplets clung to his skin like tiny crystals before rolling toward the edge of the towel in a way that made her throat dry.
“Nightclub or whatever! At least you didn’t come out of a giant cake. Sorry, Miss, your gimmick was okay because it’s new and refreshing. I’m not sure if you want to give me some counseling or if you’re here to be my spiritual advisor. You even kneeled down. So, I guess you’re ready for action, eh?”
Alondra blinked. Her brain short-circuited. Her jaw worked, but no words came out at first.
She shook her head, her hair swishing around her face. “Huh?” She couldn’t understand a word of what he was saying. Why did his voice sound so teasing yet dangerously commanding at the same time?
“I said, you seem to be ready to do your job.” His dark gaze flicked down briefly, and a brow arched. “I’ve seen your sample.”
The implication sank in like a stone in her stomach.
She inhaled sharply, scandalized, and her hands flew to her blouse. “You perverted—” she sputtered, fumbling to close the few undone buttons that had slipped open in her panicked prayer session earlier.
How dare this—this gorgeous perverted ghost—mock her modesty? Her fingers trembled as she struggled with the last button.
But he wasn’t done. No, he kept that infuriating smirk plastered on his devastatingly handsome face, his eyes glinting like a predator toying with its prey.
“What else can you offer that no one else has seen?”
She froze mid-buttoning. “Excuse me?” Her voice rose, caught between anger and disbelief.
“I’m sure I’m not the first person to see your body. What’s with that prude act? Are you trying to raise your fee by faking innocence?” He straightened with a languid stretch that made his muscles flex distractingly, then walked past her as if she were invisible. “I am not buying it. I’m also not interested in your body, Miss. Even if you take all your clothes off, kneel, dance, recite a poem, or sing, I will not take you. Sorry, you’re not the kind of woman I take to my bed. I have taste.”
For a moment, the words didn’t register.
Then her blood boiled. Her fists clenched at her sides. She gawked at him, her face turning red with fury.
What the hell? Did he really think she was some kind of p********e? Did he think she was here to sell her body?
“You jerk! I am not a p********e!” she shouted, her voice cracking with indignation. Rage burned through her fear, giving her the courage—or was it recklessness?—to lunge at him.
She didn’t plan her next move; her instincts simply screamed attack. With the crucifix still clutched in her hand like a weapon, she charged forward, aiming for his head.
“Take this! Maybe this’ll help your soul rest!” she shrieked.
But she didn’t account for his solid, unyielding frame. Instead of passing through like she expected—ghosts were supposed to be intangible, right?—she slammed full-force into a wall of muscle.
“Ahhh!” she screamed as momentum betrayed her.
He reacted swiftly. His arms snaked around her body in a blur of movement. Before she could comprehend what was happening, they were both tumbling to the floor with a loud thud.
“Ugh! That hurts like hell,” he groaned, his voice rumbling in her ear. “I’m not used to aggressive women, Miss. I want gentle…”
Her head spun. Her body stiffened beneath him.
“Y-you’re hurt?” she asked in shock, her voice barely a whisper.
“Who wouldn’t get hurt? Say it was you who dropped to the floor and got squished?” He growled, his breath warm and tinged faintly with mint.
“B-but you’re a ghost,” she whispered again, her voice breaking.
His face darkened. His eyes narrowed as he shifted above her, and in seconds, he rolled her beneath him, pinning her between his arms. The weight of his body was solid and warm. Too warm.
“What ghost? Miss, are you f*****g kidding me? Have you gone mental?”
Mental? Oh yes, she probably had.
But there was no mistaking it now. Her hands were flat against his chest—not passing through, but resting on hard, living flesh. Her palms felt the steady rise and fall of his breathing. And there—beneath her fingertips—a heartbeat.
Her eyes widened in realization.
“You’re alive?” she gasped.
The full weight of her situation slammed into her like a truck. He wasn’t a ghost. He was a man. A real, living man. And he was nearly n***d. And she was lying beneath him, their bodies pressed indecently close.
Her mind flashed to every romance novel and movie she’d ever seen—and every dire warning her grandmother had given about men.
Then she let out an ear-piercing scream.
“r**e! r**e!”
His eyes widened at first in disbelief before narrowing again, irritation flashing across his handsome features.
“Miss, what’s this? Is this your modus operandi to get more money from me? I’m sorry, Miss, but it won’t work on me. You’ll be the one ending up in jail.”
She froze mid-scream, staring at him in outrage. Did he really just—?
Her voice rose into a shriek. “You jerk! You have the audacity to send me to jail when you’re the one who appeared here out of nowhere and acted like you own this condo!”
“I do own this condo,” he snapped, holding his head like she was giving him a headache. “Wait, you’re accusing me of trespassing in my own house? You, a p********e?”
“p********e?” she shrieked back. “Take back what you said!”
But instead of apologizing, he smirked again, infuriatingly calm as she flailed beneath him. Her fists pounded uselessly against his shoulders until he caught her wrists with ease and pinned them above her head.
“Miss. I had a drink, but I’m not drunk. You can leave peacefully. I’ll just pay you for your services—even when nothing happened between us—or should I bring you straight to the precinct?”
Her mouth fell open in pure shock. “The nerve of you!” she shouted. Her cheeks burned hot with anger and humiliation.
“Mister, you’re drunk! I’m the one who’s calling the police because you don’t know what you’re doing!”
- Writer
