I made a face. “God forbid it’slegible.”
He chuckled. It was a warm, throaty sound that reminded me of red velvet cake. In a book, I would’ve called it adelicioussound. “Did you read it?” he asked. “Marlow’s book.”
“Oh,” I replied distantly, “I’m very familiar with it. You?”
“No—I have an advance copy but it never piqued my interest.”
“Might’ve saved yourself there. The heroine in the book is so dry and salty and apathetic—abouteverything.”
Ben winced. “He probably thought that meant a strong female character.”
I threw up my hands. “I know, right? A woman can be emotional and vibrant and love things. That doesn’t make her weak or inferior—argh!I’m not going to rant about it, it’ll just make me upset,” I added, forcing my hands down by my sides again. A blush crept over my cheeks. “Not that I care what he wrote. At all.”
It’s not like he wrote me into his book. Iwasn’tthat dry and salty. At least I didn’t think I was.
And Idefinitelywasn’t apathetic.
“And,” I added, unable to stop myself, “he made her a bad kisser. Like,patheticallybad. And I don’t know about you, but I think salty bitches kissgreat.”
He nodded, agreeing. “In my experience, women with sharp tongues usually have soft lips.”
“You kiss sharp-tongued girls often?”
His gaze lingered on my lips. “Not often enough.”
My ears began to burn with a blush, and I glanced away from him. He was aghost, Florence. Very much dead. And off-limits. “You know, if I was any other kind of person, I’d ask you to haunt Lee Marlow’s hipster ass.”
“A ghost for hire.”
“You’d be chillingly good at it.”
“I have a bone to pick with him, anyhow.”
“Oh?” I laughed. “Were you in love with him, too?”
“No, but you were. And I can tell that it hurts.”
That surprised me. “Am I that obvious?”
“No—yes,” he admitted. “A little. You don’t seem like the person who wroteArdently Yoursanymore. Not in a bad way, but in theway you feel when you’re reading something and realize what you’ve been looking for—are you listening?” he added as I stood and began to pace in front of the bench. “I don’t think you’re listening—”
“Shush, wait.” I held a finger up to him to get him to quiet. My brain was thinking, and it was connecting dots like a constellation. “The manuscript.”
“What about it?”
“What connects us! It’s notAnn, it’s the manuscript. You’re here becauseI’mnot done with it. That’s your unfinished business!”
He tilted his head. “Well, you’re almost finished with it, right?”
“Um...”
“Florence,” he said sternly, and a shiver went up my spine. “You’ve had over ayear.”
“Yeah, and a lot of things have happened in a year!”
“But—”
Suddenly, a flashlight blinded me. I shielded my eyes with the back of my hand and winced away from the blaringly bright light. There was the crunch of gravel, and the jingle of keys.Shit.I hadn’t even noticed him unlocking the cemetery gate or coming inside. I’d been too wrapped up in flirting with this ship calledDisaster.