Tempted by His Wicked Kiss. Zoey Williams

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СКАЧАТЬ around quickly, not wanting to lose sight of her again, wondering what to do next. There was no other choice than to hop off the platform, cross the tracks, and follow her.

      He bent at the waist and grabbed the edge of the platform before easing his body over it with a quick jump. Various pieces of litter—shattered glass bottles, empty Styrofoam containers, a knotted plastic bag—were scattered on the grimy floor. A rat the color of dishwater skittered by. No one around him noticed that Jack was standing in the middle of the tracks.

      But when his eyes returned to the woman with the purple aura, he was almost sure he could scream out and someone would hear him. Because he could practically feel his stomach drop when he saw the woman slowly turn around. An older man with a crinkled map in his hand had tapped her on the shoulder and she’d spun around, gesturing like she was giving directions. She was deep in conversation with him. The relief he’d originally felt upon seeing his glowing target quickly vanished as he now saw her face. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, hoping that what stood in front of him was a mirage. But it was unmistakable.

      It was her. He’d never been able to forget that face. Every time he’d closed his eyes for the past year, it floated around in his mind’s eye—an odd mixture of guilt and pure want coursing through him. He never thought he’d ever see her again. And now he had...under the absolute worst circumstances imaginable.

      Suddenly a horn sounded and the people up on the platform turned their attention to Jack’s left like one single entity. A faint white light was emerging from the tunnel—a light that was growing stronger and stronger. But still, no one looked down at Jackson. The light grew more intense until it was practically blinding him. The flat, silver head of the train was shining, its silvery surface reflecting the light like a mirror. The tracks underneath his feet rumbled with its barreling approach. The conductor was pulling the brake as it rolled into the station, and the train’s wheels emitted a high-pitched screech, but as it got within a foot of Jackson, it was still easily traveling at forty miles per hour.

      Instinctively, Jackson flinched, tempted to throw his arms up and wrap them protectively over his face. He was still getting used to the fact that he didn’t have to.

      The train didn’t strike him. Instead, it went through him with a powerful whoosh of air as he stood in the middle of the tracks. Because the truth was that Jackson Holloway had died almost a year ago at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve.

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