“And who exactly are we hiding from?” I ask. “The ghosts, obviously.” “Ah, of course. Ghosts famously hate laundry.” “All those years being mistaken for bedsheets. Who can blame them?” He shrugs one shoulder, and I slip my hands behind his neck. “Do you think we should do it again? Since we’re so safe in here.” I tip up and kiss the smile right off his face.
