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You can’t kiss a ghost.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

I wanted the floor to swallow me up like it was able to swallow him.

“It’s not you, it’s me. I’m the one that should be apologizing,” he said.

My face flamed, probably the same color as my hair.

“Hey, Beauchamp. I’m sorry. Look at me. Please?”

I peeked up at him.

“I’m sorry. You just took me by surprise, and here… here, you can’t touch me,” he said as he leaned to the side to get a better look at me. He looked bewildered. “Truce?” he asked.

“Truce? I wasn’t aware we were fighting,” I whispered.

He laughed, and his laughter broke the tension between us, forcing an embarrassed smile from me. He walked around the bed and sat down in front of me.

“I really am sorry. Sit. Tell me about France. Please.”

I tried to collect my thoughts.

Get it together, Emily.

You can’t kiss him. He’s dead!

Yet he was sitting in front of me, looking very much alive.

“Beauchamp?” Tristan brought me back to the now.

“France? You really want to know.”

“I want to know everything about you. You know that.”

A warm rush of pleasure rose in me.

This is why I want to kiss him.

His interest was a novel experience. I’d never really experienced interest from the opposite sex before. Well, apart from Ollie Sullivan.

I perched beside him. “Dylan has a place in France.” I frowned. “Actually, it’s an estate with vineyards, and an orchard and several hectares of land. We went for a few days.”

The story tumbled out: the argument I’d overheard between Dylan and Lulu, my futile attempt to flee—he sat back, startled when I mentioned this, but didn’t interrupt––the beautiful house, the cycling, the shopping, Jack and Patrick, and the fact that they lived in Chiswick.

Tristan frowned at the mention of the boys. I didn’t mention my sadness. He didn’t need to know about that.

Listen, Beauchamp, you’re a fucking painful place to be.

I told him about the church where I’d lit candles for my family and for him, and his eyes shone. “I thought about you a lot while I was there,” I finished.

“And I you, Emily. Like I said, I missed you.” He paused. “The son of a bitch is back.”

“Who? Dylan?”

“Who else?”

“I thought you might mean Pete the intruder.”