Page 1 of Meet Cute Reboot

Chapter 1

Luke

I hear a low moan and shoot up from bed, memories of my pleasant dream tumbling from my brain like Peanut M&M’s from a candy dispenser. If I hear that sound again, I might have peanuts in my boxers.

Korg is awake and alert on the bed next to me, his ears perked and his nose glistening in the faint morning light.

“Did you hear that?” I ask him.

There it goes again: a low, gurgly moaning, almost like a hungry stomach.

I glance out my window and examine the lumbering oaks in my front yard. Their heavy boughs are still, the faded moss upon them hanging motionless and heavy with morning dew.

It wasn’t the wind. What was it then? The plumbing?

My heart slows at the thought of an old rusty pipe under the house moaning at the slightest pressure change. It’s a possibility. I had an inspection before I bought the house. The plumbing passed, but who knows? In a house like this, things settle, move, break. I knew that going into the purchase.

Also, in an old house like this, people have died. Of natural causes. Of unnatural ones.

I hear it again, and my heart revs like a jackhammer. Korg whimpers. Not a good sign. Dogs don’t whimper at old pipes. Maybe he’s scared because I’m scared. And I’m scared because he’s scared. And—

The snarl of an angry cat sounds in the hallway. On the other side of my door. Adrenaline tosses me out of bed like it’s in charge and my bare feet land on the cold, antique wood planks. Korg leaps from the bed and barrels toward the door, hackles raised, a deep growl vibrating from his throat.

“Whoah. Korg. Back.”

That doesn’t work. He starts scratching at the floor under the door. I walk over to him and pat him on the back.

“Calm down, boy.”

My touch visually relaxes Korg. He stops growling, sniffs under the door, and barks.

“Maybe we do have a cat under the house,” I say.

I really don’t want to crawl under there. What if there’s no cat? Or what if there is, but it’s disembodied? Do I really want to tangle with a ghost cat?

Still doesn’t explain that low moan, the one that woke me up way quicker than any alarm clock.

I sit down next to Korg and drape my arm across his back. He gives the door a few more sniffs before sitting and allowing me to scratch behind his ears.

“Let’s buy a historical home in Charleston, I said. It will be fun, I said.”

Korg licks my cheek.

I take his face in both of my hands and peer into his black eyes. “You could have vetoed me, you know.”

Except for the strange noises, Korg loves this place. Loves the gardens, the expansive yard, the quick access to the tidal creekswhere he likes to ride along on my kayak. Nothing’s going to chase us away. We’re here to stay, ghosts or no ghosts.

I stand and pat Korg between the ears.

“Come on. Let’s eat.”

My hand lingers in the air above the doorknob. What if a cat leaps onto my face with its teeth bared and its claws out? The domesticated feline is no jungle cat, but those retractable claws can do some serious damage.There is no cat. I repeat, there is no cat.Korg’s lack of growling, scratching, and sniffing confirms it.

As soon as I open the door, Korg sprints into the hallway. I let him out the front door to do his business and give him a few minutes to run free before calling him back in.

We both head into the kitchen to the click, click, click of his claws against wood. He runs to his empty food bowl, but I freeze.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”