Free The Last Kiss Goodbye by Karen Robards

inches away from her.
    “Oh, my God,” Charlie said, as, inside the glass, the flame flickered and went out.
    “Jesus Christ.” Michael flexed his shoulders as he looked at the still-smoking candle. “For the record, that hurt like a mother.”
    He had already solidified. Just like that: no more cellophane man. Did that mean it had worked? She thought it did. Thank God. Her racing heart started to slow. The tide of dread that had been building inside her began to ebb. Crouched at her feet, he now looked as vividly alive as she did. Probably more so, Charlie reflected with a touch of wryness, because she had never possessed his degree of magnetism—or good looks.
    Okay. Deep breath.
    “Don’t be such a baby.” Her tone was brisk because realizing how much the idea of him being in pain bothered her bothered her. Current crisis apparently averted, she had no intention of allowing herself to dwell on how frightened for him she had been—or to clue him in to it.
    Bottom line remained: he might be here for the time being, but he was still dead—and still subject to the laws of the universe, which might decide to take him at any time. Whatever the (twisted?) relationship between them was, there was still absolutely no future in it. Not that she wanted a future that included him anyway.
    But still—here they were.
    What have I done? was the harrowing thought that occurred to her. It was almost immediately followed by its corollary: Too late now.
    “Baby? Me?” Sounding mildly affronted, he looked up at her then. The shadow of pain still etched his eyes, and Charlie found the tightening of her stomach in response more than a little alarming.
    Again she took refuge in flippancy. “No pain, no gain. The good news is, I think it worked.”
    “I sure hope so, ’cause I ain’t doing that again. Next time you start ju-juing me, think you could go with something that doesn’t feel like it’s tearing me limb from limb?”
    She smiled.
    “Dr. Stone?” A brisk rapping on the bedroom door caused her to shift focus in a hurry. It sounded like the same male voice as before. “Could I please speak to you a minute? It’s important.”
    She raised her voice. “I’ll be right there.”
    Her eyes were already back on Michael before she had even finished speaking. She hated to so much as consider the possibility, but she discovered that she was terrified he was going to start fading out, or flickering, or something similar, again. If he did, she had no idea what she would do. That call to Tam had been the last card she had to play.
    “Fuck.” Michael slowly stood up, straightening to his full height, stretching and flexing and grimacing as if he actually had muscles and sinews and tendons that could actually hurt. “I feel like I got hit by a semi.”
    “You’re dead,” she reminded him in an astringent whisper. “You shouldn’t be able to feel a thing.”
    “Like I think I may have told you before: you don’t know shit about it.”
    For a moment they looked measuringly at each other. He was so close that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. She could see the darkness in the sky blue depths, the tightness at the corners of his beautifully cut mouth, the tension in his square jaw. His hair, a sun-kissed dark blond that made her think of beaches and waves and sunny summer days, was tousled in the aftermath of the vortex. The fine texture of his skin, the slight stubble on his chin and jaw, the golden tan, all looked as real as her own slightly freckled, baby-smooth flesh. His broad shoulders and wide chest filled out the simple white cotton tee in a way that made her eyes want to linger. The brawny muscles of his arms, his flat abdomen and narrow hips and long, powerful legs, all proclaimed youth and strength and a healthy virility. Her breasts were millimeters from the muscled wall of his chest. If he had been alive, she would have been able to feel his body heat, feel the warmth of his breath on her