Here’s a sneak peek of Ghost Hunting, my contribution to Christmas Spirits (the multi-author series coming soon from Changeling Press)!
“Look, I’m just saying that maybe a little more… drama is what we need. Just a little — “
Caleb Ryan threw his hands up, exasperated. “I might say I feel something when I don’t. I might over-act for the camera. But I will not pretend to talk an old lady’s dead husband!”
“Um, Caleb,” someone said from behind him.
Whirling around, Caleb continued, “I will not…” He blinked. “Oh. Uh, hi?”
The director’s assistant smiled rather sheepishly. “Sorry to interrupt. This is Mr. Scott Pennington.”
“Scott,” the silver fox said, extending one hand to Caleb. “Just call me Scott.”
Caleb dumbly nodded before managing to kick his brain into gear. “Um, Caleb Ryan. How can I help you? Are you a fan of the show?”
Scott glanced at the assistant and the director, both of whom left. He cleared his throat. “I got your name from a waitress in Pratt,” he said. “She gave me a list of names, people who deal with… otherworldly things. No other groups near here will see me until after Christmas. I’m kind of desperate, to be honest.”
Caleb nodded. “Yeah, I don’t observe it, so I’m usually the one folks come to this time of year. What sort of otherworldly things are you talking about?”
“Ever hear of Pennington Farm?”
Caleb snorted out a laugh. “Are you kidding? Everyone’s heard of that place! The old loon who owned it fled the house and refused to go back. No one’s been able to get in to investigate his claims of paranormal activity.” Caleb narrowed his gaze. “Why?”
Scott drew a key from his pocket and held it up. “That old loon was my uncle. The farm is mine now. And I need help.”
“I see,” Caleb muttered. “Um, we’re wrapping up here, but I’d love to talk to you about it. When’s a good time?”
“You free for dinner?” Scott asked.
Ignoring the brief thrill of having a not-date with the gorgeous man, Caleb nodded. “Sure. What did you have in mind?”
“This is the first time I’ve been back this way in almost thirty years.” Scott pulled out his wallet and handed Caleb a business card. “Give me a text or call when you’re done, and I’ll meet you wherever. I’m staying at Spicer Inn in downtown Pratt.”
Caleb glanced at the card, then smiled and nodded. “Sure thing. Shouldn’t be too long, maybe an hour or so?”
“That works,” Scott said. “Thanks, and I’ll talk to you then.”
Caleb watch the man walk away, unable to stop staring at muscular thighs and a tight butt encased in slightly faded denim. Thirty years? Judging by the hint of gray in the dark hair, Caleb put Scott Pennington in mid-forties, maybe. It didn’t matter. Caleb would sit up and beg just to see lust in those luminous baby blues.
Fingers snapped in front of his face. Caleb shook his head. “Sorry.”
His friend and fellow investigator, Jay, just laughed. “What was that about?”
Caleb studied the business card. “We may be the first to investigate Pennington Farm.”
He met Jay’s gaze and held up the card, emblazoned with ‘Scott Pennington, Homicide’ in dark blue across the middle. Below it, in black: ‘St. Louis Police.’