Could I call Ghost Hunters? Or The Dead Files ­people?

“Sit with me?” he asked, stretching his arm along the back of the couch.

Reece had easily dismissed the toilet-­seat thing, and I almost blurted out my Haunting in Plymouth Meeting suspicion, but decided against sounding like a lunatic for the time being. I’d prefer to talk to my mom or Katie about that. He probably wouldn’t believe me, and think I was being kooky Roxy.

Making my way over to him, I sat down with what I considered was appropriate space between us. When I pulled my legs up and crossed them, there was at least an inch. Plus, if I leaned back, it would be against his arm.

Why was I even thinking about this?

“What are you watching?” I asked, picking at the hem of my pants.

One shoulder rose in a shrug. “Looks like an infomercial for music of the eighties. Thinking about buying it.”

I snorted. “I don’t even own a CD player.”

He sent me a sideways glance. “You don’t own a DVD player either.”

When I’d been in his apartment, he’d had an impressive collection of DVDs. Not that I got a chance to scope them out, but I bet he had every movie from the last two decades. “Why would I, when I have On Demand?”

Shaking his head, he picked up his glass. “You don’t have a DVD collection and you still got your momma making tea for you. What am I doing here?”

“Whatever!” I smacked his thigh—­his extremely hard thigh. Wow. My fingers tingled when I drew my hand back. “How do you know I didn’t make that tea?”

“It tastes just like your mom’s tea,” he countered, blue eyes twinkling. “Plus, the last I remember, your sweet tea tastes like watered-­down engine fuel.”

A laugh burst out of me. “It does not.”

He arched a brow.

“Okay. Fine. The ratio of tea to sugar always throws me off.”

Reece chuckled. “You know, I was being serious about learning how to shoot a gun earlier. It’s just a smart thing to do.”

“I don’t know. Guns . . . I don’t have a problem with them, but they scare me,” I admitted. “It’s having the power to end a life in your hands. All you have to do is pull a trigger.” I shook my head. “That’s just . . . that’s just too much power.”

“Babe, you damn well know a rock in the hands of the wrong person can change lives, end them even. A gun is no different.”

Unsettled, I had to admit that he was right. But guns were also a part of his life and they weren’t a part of mine. Growing up, Dad had hunting rifles, but I rarely ever saw them. He kept them locked up, and never once did it cross my mind to get one for myself.

“You just have to be responsible,” he continued. “Just think about it. For me?”