I perched on the bed. “So one of us will play patient and the other should be a nurse or—”

“First, I need you in a nurse’s uniform.”

“I don’t think I saw any nurses on the way in. I should go see what kind of outfits—”

As I slid off the bed, he put out a hand to stop me.

“I think I can handle this,” he said. “May I?”

Being able to change women out of their clothing may be most adolescent boys’ idea of heaven, but ghosts can’t do it unless they’re given tacit permission by the other party. I closed my eyes and concentrated on letting Kris change my clothes.

“There,” he said.

I looked down and saw my boobs looking back at me. Well, the tops of them anyway, stuffed into a white shirt with cleavage so low I was bound to pop out if I so much as sighed. I wore a skintight white nurse’s dress that barely covered my rear. Speaking of adolescent fantasies…

I glared at Kris, who was grinning like a thirteen-year-old.

“Hey, it’s a nurse’s uniform,” he said.

“Yeah…from a porn movie.”

A wide grin. “Works for me.”

As I sighed, he stepped closer, finger sliding along the hem of my dress, rippling the fabric so it tickled against my thighs.

“Remember the last time you played nurse for me?” he murmured. “I was working at the New York office, and you came up for the weekend. We were supposed to get together for dinner, but you called—”

“I remember,” I said, quickstepping away. “Now, we need a plan—”

“Oh, you had a plan.” He stepped as close to me as he could get without touching. “I was on my way to a meeting and you called and said, ‘I can’t wait for tonight, Kris.’”

I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but his gaze met mine, and the words dried up, leaving me standing there, lips parted, face tilted up to his.

He continued, “You said I didn’t sound very good, and suggested I come by the hotel room so you could play nurse for me. Which you did. Most effectively. Ordered me into bed…and, by the time you were done, I couldn’t have got out of it if I wanted to.” A slow grin. “Of course, neither could you.”

Thank God for ghost-hood sometimes. No need to worry about pounding hearts or sweaty palms or heavy breathing. All I had to do was keep my gaze down, and he wouldn’t know how badly I wanted to say “To hell with it” and cross that last quarter-inch between us.