Suze is used to trouble, but this time she's in deep: Ghostly Jesse has her heart, but Paul Slater, a real flesh ' and ' blood guy, is warm for her form. And mediator Paul knows how to send Jesse to the Great Beyond. For good.
Paul claims he won't do anything to Jesse as long as Suze will go out with him. Fearing she'll lose Jesse forever, Suze agrees. But even if Suze can get Jesse to admit his true feelings for her, what kind of future can she have with a guy who's already dead
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December 28, 2004
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Excerpt from Mediator 5: Haunted by Meg Cabot
"Well, well, well," said a distinctly masculine voice from behind me. "If it isn't Susannah Simon."
Look, I won't lie to you. When a cute guy talks to me -- and you could tell from this guy's voice that he was easy on the eyes; it was in the self-confidence of those well, well, wells, the caressing way he said my name -- I pay attention. I can't help it. I'm a sixteen-year-old girl, after all. My life can't revolve entirely around Lilly Pulitzer's latest tankini print and whatever new innovations Bobbi Brown has made in the world of stay-put lip liner.
So I'll admit that, even though I have a boyfriend -- even if boyfriend is a little optimistic a term for him -- as I turned around to see the hottie who was addressing me, I gave my hair a little bit of a toss. Why shouldn't I? I mean, considering all the product I'd layered into it that morning, in honor of the first day of my junior year -- not to mention the marine fog that regularly turns my head into a frizzy mess -- my coiffure was looking exceptionally fine.
It wasn't until I'd given the old chestnut mane a flip that I turned around and saw that the cutie who'd said my name was not someone I'm too fond of.
In fact, you might say I have reason to be scared to death of him.
I guess he could read the fear in my eyes -- carefully done up that morning with a brand-new combination of eye shadows called Mocha Mist -- because the grin that broke out across his good-looking face was slightly crooked at one end. "Suze," he said in a chiding tone. Even the fog couldn't dull the glossy highlights in his raffishly curly dark hair. His teeth were dazzlingly white against his tennis tan. "Here I am, nervous about being the new kid at school, and you don't even have a hello for me? What kind of way is that to treat an old pal?"
I continued to stare at him, perfectly incapable of speech. You can't talk, of course, when your mouth has gone as dry as . . . well, as the adobe brick building we were standing in front of.