The Legend of Sleepy Harlow by Kylie Logan Page A

whole silly ghost thing; about the real person. She’s even got an academic press that’s going to publish it. And I’m sort of helping. With the research. And proofreading.”
    “Do you know anything about writing a book?”
    I hoped my quick smile was noncommittal. “If I could just look around,” I suggested. “I know I’m being pushy, but—”
    “Not pushy at all.” I was grateful when he stepped toward a doorway that led into the living room at the front of the apartment, because for a moment there, I thought he was going to press his point. He led me into the living room, which, like the kitchen, had obviously been redone recently, and by someone whose taste was above average and whose budget could support it. The walls were painted an understated, just-barely-there color that reminded me of the stainless appliances in the kitchen. Except for the doorway in the middle of the wall that opened into a hallway that led to a bathroom and bedrooms beyond, the wall on my right was lined with bookshelves. Always curious about peoples’ reading habits, I headed that way.
    A smattering of history: Civil War and World War II. A few books about baseball. A book or two on sailing. A variety of cookbooks that promised interesting things would be happening at Levi’s sometime soon: street-food tacos, Southern cooking, waffles both savory and sweet. A couple novels.
    “FX O’Grady.” Levi came up behind me and put a hand against the shelf nearest to where I stood, the circle of his arm only inches from my shoulder. The temperature in the room shot up a degree or two, and I knew if I leaned just a tiny bit to my left . . .
    I stopped myself before I could succumb, and concentrated instead on the lurid titles of the novels nearest my nose. They were splashed across the hardcover spines in shades of red, dusty gray, and bilious green, in fonts that looked like blood and smoke and drool:
A Demon’s Wrath, Minions of Misery, Blood Ties.
If ever there was a time for stating the obvious, this was it.
    “You like to read horror.”
    Since I refused to look Levi’s way, I didn’t know for sure, but I imagined he smiled when he said, “And you don’t like reading scary stories. At least that’s what I’ve heard.” He shifted his stance just a tad, a move that made his hip brush mine when he plucked the nearest book from the shelf. He opened it to the inside back cover. “Look at that. The best selling of all the best-selling authors and the guy doesn’t even get his picture in the book.”
    I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say about this so I didn’t say anything at all.
    “Think he’s shy?” Levi asked.
    “Maybe he’s embarrassed that he writes books that scare so many people.”
    “So, you and the other Ladies in the League won’t be reading FX O’Grady in honor of Halloween?”
    I tried to make it look perfectly natural when I took a step to my right, the better to put some distance between me and the heat generated by his body. Still, it was impossible to ignore the heady smell of his aftershave. It was as bracing as the fall afternoon, and I wondered if I’d simply missed the scent back at the park, or if he’d splashed it on when he got home to get the smell of death out of his nose.
    “We’re reading Washington Irving,” I said, and prayed my voice didn’t sound as breathy to him as it did to me. It might have been the memory of what happened at the park that made my lungs feel as if there were a hand inside my chest, squeezing and twisting.
    It might have been something else.
    “Sleepy Hollow.” Levi chuckled. “A headless horseman and a terrified schoolteacher. At least we don’t have to worry about our Sleepy chasing anyone through the woods at night.”
    “Not as far as we know.”
    “But I hear your ghost hunters were looking for him, anyway.”
    Another side step and I was far enough away to turn to him. “They’re not my ghost hunters.”
    “Hank says he thought he was