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He relaxed his stance and put his arms around me. “Oh, Emily,” he murmured. “What am I going to do with you?”
I glanced up at him. His expression was softer. I reached up to trace his full lips with my finger. He gasped, taken by surprise, and recoiled, grasping my hand and holding it tightly against his chest.
“Stop that,” he said quietly, but his eyes burned, with anger or something else. I didn’t know. “How are you feeling?” His voice was hoarse.
“Warm… Happy.” I smiled and hugged him tighter.
“Tired?” he said, hope ringing in his voice.
I grinned. “Not at all.”
“That’s what I feared.” He shook his head. “Do you feel sick at all?”
“No. I feel great.”
“Have you peed?”
I stepped back a pace but didn’t let him go and looked down at my skirt. “No.”
“No, I don’t mean that. Have you peed this evening?”
I resumed my hug. “Um… Yeah. Nice loo. Tasteful decor. Not white.”
He chuckled. “Good. Do you want to watch TV?”
“No, I want to talk. And I like making you laugh.”
He smiled. “And I you, Emily. What do you want to talk about?” Dylan stepped back, releasing me.
“Don’t let go of me. I like it when you hold me. I miss that. It’s one of the things you lose when all the people who love you die.”
He closed his eyes as if in pain and sat down on one of the kitchen chairs, pulling me into his lap. “Not all the people who love you are dead. I’m still here,” he said into my hair.
I snuggled into him. He smelled so clean, so Dylan.
“Who’s Tristan?” he asked.
“My secret. I can’t tell you.”
His mouth lifted in amusement. “Your boyfriend?”
“He’s dead too.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Dylan shifted in his seat.
“We thought he was murdered by Pete.”
“Murdered. Good God, I didn’t know this. Your mother never mentioned—”
“Yes. Pete was here today. He tried to break in. Pete Webster is his name. He’s just back from Spain.”
Dylan went utterly still. I glanced at his wide-eyed stare. “What are you saying? What are you talking about? Emily, how do you know?”
“Tristan told me.”
“I thought you said he’s dead.”
“He is—but he’s lovely.”
