tired.”
“I believe I could manage that, though it would require a change of song.”
He passes over my phone. I flip through my playlists.
“Another piece of modern music,” I say. “Not as pained as the last. A favorite dance tune for when I’m alone. It isn’t quite classical ballet, though.”
“As I said, you could dance a fisherman’s jig, and I’d be thoroughly enthralled.”
“Tempting, but no. We’ll try this.”
I hit Play. Sia’s “Move Your Body” begins. His head tilts in consideration, listening and nodding as I move onto the lawn. I slough off my shoes, the grass tickling my feet and swishing as I walk to the middle of the cleared area.
The tempo is just right, not too fast for classical dance, but with a beat that I can throw myself into, skirts gathered in front, draping gracefully in the back as I twirl and kick, the weight of the dress falling away, tiredness forgotten, inhibitions forgotten, too, dancing as if I’m in my living room.
When the song finishes, I open my eyes, and William is there, an arm’s length away. He steps closer, hands going to my upper arms as he leans in, his eyes dark, voice low and thick as he says, “The song is correct. Your body is poetry.”
My cheeks heat, and I duck my gaze, suddenly feeling like my teen self, caught dancing through the barn when I thought he was busy with the horses.
His fingers slide up to my shoulders, his voice still a murmur. “Your body is the music that has echoed through my dreams since I was fifteen, Bronwyn. I heard it, and I could never stop hearing it. I tried to pretend I’d forgotten you. I forgot not a single particle of you. Not the sound of your voice, not the music of your laugh, not the whisper of your sighs. I remember the way you smelled when I’d bury my face against your neck. You left a sweater behind once, on a cool morning. When you asked me about it later, I said I hadn’t seen it. I lied. I could not part with it any more than I could part with the bracelet you gave me. I still have the sweater, and it cannot possibly still smell of you, but when I open the drawer, I swear that it does. When you left, I was hurt, and I was afraid, terrified something had happened to you.”
“I—”
He presses a finger to my lips. “But I knew it hadn’t. I felt that, somehow, if you were gone forever, I would know it. Whatever stopped you from returning, I knew it was not your fault. Yes, I blamed you when you first returned, but that was wounded pride and a desperate cry for truth, for you to tell me what I already knew—that you did not leave me by choice. If I truly believed you had, I would never have kept that bracelet or that sweater.”
I open my mouth to speak, but he presses his lips to mine, stopping any apologies. When he pulls back, he stays so close his breath tickles my lips.
“I have not forgotten an inch of you,” he says. “You grew up with me even when you were gone. I would dream of you, at eighteen, nineteen, what you would look like, feel like, sound like. At twenty-five, I would walk into a ball and immediately find the one woman who looked as I imagined you would. I would only watch her, never approaching, never asking her to dance, knowing that would shatter the illusion. She would speak, and it would not be your voice, your words, your laugh. She would embrace me, and it would not be your touch, your smell, your body. I admired from afar and chose other partners, ones I could not possibly mistake for you, leaving you to haunt my dreams.”
His fingers trace along the collar of my gown, sliding it toward one shoulder, lips lowering to trace kisses along the bare skin, making me shiver.
“That night you came to my bed, it was no surprise at all. Yet another dream of you. A gloriously vivid vision, achingly perfect. The curve of your neck . . .” He kisses down my throat. “The swell of your breasts . . .”
His fingers trace over the tops of them, sliding toward my shoulder, pushing the dress down and kissing the exposed skin as I arch, sighing. His hands move to the back of my bodice, deftly unfastening the