to do what’s best for our customers and staff,” she says. “I’m not trying to sound harsh, just practical. And I want your mind to be at ease about our business.”
“What about our friendship?”
“That’s why I’m suggesting this.”
She pulls her arm from my grip. Puzzled and hurt, I let her go. I’m still standing by the counter when Brent comes into the kitchen.
“Hey, Brent, has Allie said anything to you about my diagnosis?” I ask.
He stops, a look of discomfort passing over his features. “Not really. I mean, it’s tough on her. She doesn’t think she can handle it.”
She doesn’t think she can handle it? It’s tough on her?
The questions scrape my throat. I swallow them back down.
“Well, I’m going to continue working,” I tell him. “This is my café too.”
“Yeah, sure.” Brent scratches his head. “Um, I think Allie just wants you to know we can handle things when you need time off.”
“Message received.” I toss a dishtowel on the counter and go out to the dining room, impatience sticking me like a pin.
Not even the usual sounds of chatter and laughter ease my prickly nerves. I take a breath and tell myself not to get upset. Some people can’t deal with a sick friend. Allie must be one of them, though never in a million years would I have guessed that before now.
Just the opposite, in fact—I’d have thought Allie would be the one jumping in with bucketloads of support dusted with pink glitter. Instead she’s retreating behind a wall—and God knows I don’t need to deal with another damned wall right now.
I blink back a sting of tears. I’ve often gone to Allie for advice over the years, and her response has always been her unique mixture of practicality and sunny “everything will be fine” promises. I could use both of those things right now, especially since I keep coming up against my husband’s relentless drive for action.
After I finish my shift, I take out my cell phone and dial Dean’s number, needing to commiserate with him and hear his words of reassurance that everything will work out with Allie and the café.
But as the phone rings, I think that I don’t want to burden him with another tale of woe. It’s a slippery slope, I know—Dean and I have a history of keeping things from each other, to upsetting results—but I’m not going to run crying to him about every bump in the road. I can’t give him another thing to be angry and frustrated about.
His phone goes to voicemail. I hesitate, then end the call without leaving a message.
I stop in the bathroom doorway, almost surprised to see Dean sitting in bed, his attention on his tablet. Lately he’s still been in his tower office when I turn off the light to go to sleep.
At the moment, he has the “scholar at work” look I especially love—reading glasses on, his serious expression conveying that he’s thinking very hard about something, his hair messy from finger-combing.
He’s also not wearing a shirt—yet another sight that makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. I let my gaze travel over the smooth musculature of his shoulders, his beautifully defined chest.
He’s still here, I remind myself, as I cross to the bed. We are still here.
He glances up as I approach, his eyes going to the sway of my breasts beneath my sheer nightgown. A tingle washes through me, gentle and welcome. I climb into bed and scoot closer to him.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I remark, resting my hand on his chest. “I was beginning to think you were camping out up in the tower.”
He lifts my hand from his chest and rubs his thumb over the scar, now faded to a thin, white line, that crosses my palm. He presses his lips against it, sending a warm current clear up my arm.
Tension coils through him—but it’s not the hot, anticipatory tension that always precedes our lovemaking. Instead it’s something darker.
I curl my fingers into my palm, hiding the faint evidence of the knife cut that Dean will always feel guilty about. Even if I carry plenty of blame for instigating the chain of events that led to me cutting open my own hand.
I lean closer to him, nudging my breasts against his arm. He smells clean and soapy, and a tiny drop of water still clings to his neck from his damp hair. I flick my tongue out to lick up the drop, feeling the responding shudder that courses