Page 16

I glared at the closed door. Normally, Dylan was all about control—meticulous, clinical, careful, calm—and here I was, a mess of a girl, interrupting his tidy life. I put my head in my hands, all at once feeling sorry for myself and for him.

But he was all I had left. He was my guardian—my legal guardian.

The mysterious scent abruptly returned, more potent than before, like it was wrapped around me. It was intoxicating. I forgot about Dylan. I forgot about my pain. I forgot about everything and drew in a deep breath, filling my lungs properly once more. Oh yes, the smell was amazing, evocative—but of what? I didn’t know or couldn’t remember.

And I didn’t care.

Smell was the wrong word. Fragrance, perfume, bouquet—nothing described how sweet and welcome it was. I sat down on the floorboards, then lay down, drinking it in, my eyes closed.

Oh, it makes me forget.

I reveled in it and simply enjoyed the peace that it brought me.

And just as suddenly as it arrived, the scent vanished.

“Why are you on the floor? Are you okay?”

I scrambled to my feet, dazed and embarrassed. Dylan was standing at the door.

“I was checking where I should put the bed,” I said, surprised I could pluck such a plausible excuse so quickly out of nowhere. I decided not to mention the strange aroma again. Dylan would think I was crazy.

Perhaps I am.

Crazy with grief.

Dylan’s brow furrowed, but he made no further comment. “Lunch is ready.”

He’d prepared grilled chicken with new potatoes and salad. I took a seat at the breakfast bar, and for the first time in weeks, I was hungry.

“This looks tasty,” I acknowledged, more to myself than him.

“Good. Eat up.”

Much to Dylan’s approval, I ate it all.

Hours later, we were cleaning the back room. Dylan had decreed that “it’s all in the preparation,” so here we were, having dusted the ceilings, the walls, and all the woodwork, we were now sugar-soaping them. It was one of the most tedious jobs I’d ever undertaken, but the monotony and the physical activity of spraying and wiping was soothing. All I had to think about was removing the dirt. Who would have thought that grime could be so absorbing?

As well as face goggles, a mask, and rubber gloves, Dylan had given me one of his old shirts to wear, though it didn’t look that old to me. It was a comfortable flannel shirt that was far too big. But I liked it. It smelled of fresh laundry and fabric conditioner, which reminded me of Dylan.

Wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and some cut-off jeans, and the same protective gear I was wearing, he was absorbed in his task, tackling the ceiling. Thorough man that he was, he’d already checked that the old paint on the walls wasn’t lead with a special kit and was now standing on a small painting platform, filling in the cracks and holes with Polyfilla, and using a scraper for lumps and bumps in the ceiling.

Emily, I know the Bulgarians have done most of the house, but I painted my study. I’ve got this! Also, I watched a bunch of YouTube videos.

He was a pro.

It was impressive.

We worked mostly in silence, though Dylan sighed occasionally. I ignored him. I had to concentrate on what I was doing so I didn’t miss a spot.

As time passed, the light reflecting on the cleaner primrose-yellow walls faded to a soft evening glow. It was quite lovely.

Wow. How long have we been doing this?

“That should do it.” Dylan interrupted my thoughts as I scrubbed the far end wall. He jumped down from the platform to admire the ceiling. It looked even but with patches of filler. “That will need sanding when it’s dry in the morning. I’m going to tackle the walls now.”

He brandished his scraper and the small pot of filler as if he were about to perform major surgery, and I giggled. “More lumps and bumps. This must be like being at work.”

He snorted, amused. “The patient here”—he tapped the wall—“is much quieter than my normal patients. And stoic. I love her for it.”