His fingers brushed against the rumpled sheets where she had slept, not her body. He sat up in bed. Where did she go?“Ains?” No one answered. He looked around the disaster area that was his room. The splintered drawers and all their contents covered the floor, but the video camera was missing. He hopped out of the bed and ran downstairs. “Ainsley?”But the downstairs echoed the same silence. If he hadn't seen the shattered glass in the parlor, he would have told himself he imagined it all. But he had. It had all been real—the ghost, making love to Ainsley, all of it. He fell back on the couch and ran his fingers through his hair. This was an interesting twist on things. Usually he was the one sneaking out the door while the other person slept. As his grandmother would say, he’d gotten a taste of his own medicine. He didn’t expect it to be from Ainsley, though. His chest tightened, and he found it difficult to breathe for a moment. Dammit, he didn’t even have her phone number.
