The Cottage on Pumpkin and Vine by Kate Angell Page B

“Don’t be shy.” There was challenge in his tone.
    He was getting even with her. She’d forced him to replace the bulbs. His request for her to remove the prickles seemed a fair exchange.
    Her heart gave an unfamiliar flutter. Her stomach knotted. They presently stood between the tall box of headstones and a privacy hedge. They weren’t visible from the road.
    She decided to pick off the needles individually instead of making a palm-wide sweep. There’d be less touching. In her hurry, her knuckles bumped his sex. He sucked air. Enlarged. The tab on the zipper slid down an inch. He made the adjustment.
    â€œGood enough.” He pushed her hand away.
    She sighed her relief.
    He twisted, struggled with the prickles on his back, stretching to brush those between his shoulder blades. Frustrated by those he couldn’t reach, he snagged the hem on his T-shirt and tugged it over his head. Shook it out. Grace’s eyes rounded and her mouth went dry. He had a magnificent chest.
    Broad and bare, his chest tempted her. Her fingers itched to touch him. Even for a second. This was so unlike her. The need to satisfy her curiosity outweighed the consequences. She went with the urge. She traced his flat stomach and six-pack abs. His jeans hung low. Sharp hip bones, man dents, and sexy lick lines. The man was sculpted.
    Cade clutched his shirt to his thigh. Stood still. She felt his gaze on her, but couldn’t meet his eyes. Not after she flattened her hand over his abdomen, and his heat suffused her palm. His stomach contracted. Her fingers flexed. She scratched him. He groaned.
    The slam of the front door indicated someone was close by. Heavy footsteps, the creak of a rocker, indicated the person was here to stay. Grace’s thoughts snapped to the gauzy spider web woven on the porch. She hoped whoever it was wouldn’t disrupt the decorations.
    She eased back, their contact broken. A breeze cooled the air between them. Shadows claimed the late afternoon. Touching Cade had stolen precious decorating minutes. It was worth it. A once-ina-lifetime for her. She would make up the loss later in the evening. The man was hot.
    He drew his shirt over his head, hand-smoothed the cotton down his chest. No pine needles remained. She looked up, as he looked down. His eyes were dark, his expression unreadable. “The tombstones won’t set themselves,” he said. He went to work.
    She stuck beside him. Opening the box, they withdrew the thick plastic grave markers. His lips twitched as he scanned the epitaphs: R.I.P. Van Winkle, Dee Cayed, I.M. Gone, and Barry R. Bones. “Dracula, Fangs for the Memories, ” he read aloud and, chuckled.
    Grace held up her favorite. “Rigger Mortys. Death Grips and Holds Me Tight, But I Shall Return on Halloween Night .”
    Tongue-in-cheek, he asked her, “What would your headstone say?”
    â€œ She Threw a Great Party, ” came to mind. “How about yours?”
    â€œ Death by Decorating .”

Chapter 4
    C ade staked and anchored the tombstones. Zombies came next. White-faced and gruesome, they crawled from the ground. Once the undead were secured, he scanned the graveyard. It looked scarily supernatural. He located Grace, working nearby on the Gates of Hell. Wide metal gateposts supported an arch with a gargoyle perched on top. The gate was partially unhinged. Hanging eerily. Chained to the entry, a big skeleton hellhound with spiked ears, long snout, and teeth like a crocodile, stood guard. He stepped closer for a better look, and the hound gave an unexpected howl. A guttural baying at the moon. Realistic as hell. His skin crawled.
    â€œBattery-sensor behind his ear picks up movement,” Grace told Cade. “Anyone approaching the arch will be turned away.”
    The guests staying at Rose Cottage returned for dinner. Several carried shopping bags with the Charade logo. Each one stopped on the cobblestone path and surveyed the