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When dead men tell mo' tales...
Running afoul of a pants-less ghost pirate wasn't exactly what Paranormal Psychologist, Matilda Schmidt had in mind when she took off for some R & R. Even at a quiet beach-side bungalow, Matilda can't catch a moment's peace when the restless spirits aren't the only ones haunting her bedroom.
Marooned by a disappearing demigod, and seeking a solution to banish her unwelcome guests, Matilda rides shotgun with a hit man who's better at making ghosts than eliminating them. When Matilda's new-found abilities leave her feeling more psychotic than psychic, she's forced to consider an offer she doesn't want to take, but can't afford to refuse.
Excerpt:
One
minute I had been alone, submerged in the warmth of a claw-footed
tub, soaking in a lavender-scented bubble bath, and the next, all the
molecules shifted to make room for the six-foot-and-then-some demigod
standing between the towel rack and me.
“I
said an hour!” Shocked, sputtering, smearing yet more bubbles on my
glasses as I tried to wipe spots off the lenses with an already-wet
hand, I searched in vain for anything I could use to cover myself.
“Allow
me.” Crixus plucked the glasses from my face and used the edge of
his black T-shirt to wipe them free of bubbles. From my vantage
point, I could see up the gap to the shadowed lines of his abdominal
muscles. What my blurred vision couldn’t make out, the palms of my
hands still remembered.
“Who
wears glasses in the bathtub?” he asked through lips tugging up at
one corner as if snagged by a fisherman’s hook.
I
sank down in the tub until the bubbles rested under my chin and my
knees poked up in twin islands. “Someone who can’t read without
them.”
Eyes
bluer than the sea I had just abandoned skimmed the surface of the
water like they could already see all that was submerged beneath. His
hair was the color of sand dunes shaded by storm clouds, his smooth
skin a bronze that suggested the sun worshipped him, rather than the
other way around.
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