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New faces. New names to learn. And this time, I’d have a completely different backstory—a tragic one in which my family were no more.

The thought was a slap across my face.

Emily. Keep it together.

What would people think of me?

Would it just be pity?

“Pretty little thing, aren’t you.” Webster’s words came to mind, and my stomach roiled. But then I remembered Dave, Dylan’s lovely friend, had said the same thing, and Leon, Jack’s friend. That took the curse off it.

But it was weird. When did I get pretty?

I’d never been pretty. I shook my head and frowned. Did grief become me? The thought was depressing. Perhaps it was the weight loss. In the mirror, I saw an ordinary girl with tied-back flame-red hair, pale skin with a scattering of freckles, and dark-blue eyes that dominated a too-small face.

Nothing had changed. The haunted look remained. My lips twitched at the thought. Yes, I was really haunted. I glanced at the photo of my family. If I’d been with them, the horror of today would never have happened, but then I would never have met Tristan.

I halted that thought, pulled myself to my feet, and changed into my nightwear—my oversize I ❤️ Bach T-shirt. I slipped it on, scrambled into bed, switched off my bedside light, and gazed at the ceiling, which glowed a cool pink, bathed in silver light from the moon.

Tristan made life bearable. He was funny. Smart. Caring. And beyond beautiful. I closed my eyes, willing him to appear. “I need you,” I whispered into the ether. I wanted to be in his arms. I wanted to feel his lips on mine once more.

My heartbeat rallied at the thought.

Emily. You can’t love a ghost.

But I do.

I lived to see him. To be with him.

There. I’d admitted it to myself.

He’d come to mean more to me than… anyone.

Tristan. I closed my eyes and hoped to dream, and my hand traveled down my body, over my breast, skimming my nipple, which hardened under my touch.

I inhaled sharply.

Tristan. I wanted him. I wanted him to touch me like this. I imagined his fingers skating across my belly and lifting the hem of my T-shirt.

I groaned and knew I wanted physical release.

That’s when I heard it. Dylan. Playing guitar. A soft, beautiful melody that floated from downstairs and found me. It had a vague flamenco vibe that was stunning and soothing.

Oh, Dylan. That’s lovely.

My fingers found their goal.

Yes.

I tipped my head back and took another deep breath, and Tristan was there. His scent everywhere. Overwhelming me.

I opened my eyes, and he stood at the end of the bed, watching me.

Oh God!

“Don’t stop on my account,” he whispered, and his green eyes gleamed wicked and bright in the moonlight.

I stopped and tugged the duvet up so he could only see my eyes.