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Oh no.
Where Luke Fox had failed, Dylan succeeded with a simple apology. The tears oozed down my cheeks.
“Please don’t cry,” he said and handed me a tissue. “You frightened the life out of me yesterday. If something happened to you, I’d never forgive myself. And I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about the ghost. That’s what I want to talk to you about. I thought we could have breakfast on neutral territory. I’m assuming the ghost tends to stay within the environs of the house?”
I nodded and knotted the tissue with my fingers.
“Let’s go to the coffee shop and you can tell me all about it… er, him. That’s if you’re ever going to speak to me again,” he added.
In spite of my feelings, his words made me smile.
“That’s better.” He stroked my cheek with the back of his fingers. “How’s your head? It took all my self-control not to whisk you down to the hospital earlier this morning and give you an MRI.”
“It’s better, thanks,” I muttered.
“Do you forgive me?”
“Of course I do. You’re all I have. And I really am sorry—about yesterday, and the tea caddy.”
I glanced up at him and he smiled. “That’s quite a throw you have, Emily. I should enlist you onto the cricket team. Come on, let’s talk ghosts.”
Chapter XIX Conference
“What do you want to know?” I asked as I sat nursing a caffè mocha and picking at a blueberry muffin. We were sitting in two wide armchairs at the back of the coffee shop where there were no other customers to hear us.
“Everything,” Dylan said, holding out his hands.
Wondering what he would do with the information, I reluctantly began the story of Tristan. From my first sighting when I was painting the leaves in my bedroom to yesterday when he’d demonstrated his presence with such effectiveness. I left out the dreams. They were a need-to-know basis, and Dylan did not need to know.
“How old is he?” Dylan asked.
“He was nineteen when he died.”
Dylan’s eyes widened and scrutinized me in a way I found uncomfortable.
“What?”
“You like him,” he said simply.
To my utter chagrin, my face flushed scarlet.
“For a ghost, he’s okay,” I whispered.
He rubbed his chin, watching me through narrowed eyes.
“You like him a lot,” he murmured, and by his tone, I could tell he was shocked, and he disapproved.
My face stayed puce and I had to look away. “I’ve been kind of lonely and going through a difficult time. And he’s been there.”
Boy, this is awkward.
Why does Dylan have to be so observant?
“And you say he’s not dangerous?”
“No. He’s very protective. When Webster the intruder came before—”
“What!”
