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“I’ve made you some soup,” Dylan said.
Tristan snorted and rolled his eyes.
“Okay,” I said to Dylan.
“Feeling better?” Dylan asked.
I offered him a weak but reassuring smile.
Tristan smirked.
“It’s a real pleasure to hear you play. You’re really very good.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Tristan taunted Dylan.
I tried not to glare at Tristan to shut him up, but it was difficult.
“Thank you. I’ll be down in a moment. I’ll just put my cello away.”
Dylan realized he was being dismissed, and a puzzled frown crossed his face. Maybe it was the six-foot surly ghost that was standing beside him, but he gave no indication that he could see, feel, or hear him.
“I’ll see you downstairs,” Dylan mumbled after a moment.
I ignored the pang of regret I felt as he closed the door behind him.
“He’s bloody intense,” Tristan observed, his tone sardonic. “He’s shitting himself about you.”
“I know. But how do you know?”
“It’s bloody obvious.”
“Is it? I think he hides how he feels all the time.”
“The hell he does.” Tristan scowled. “I’ve seen his thoughts and he’s seriously worried about you.”
“Seen his thoughts?”
Tristan blinked, and his scowl deepened. “Er… yeah. So how long have you been playing?” he asked, pointing his chin toward my cello, and I knew it was to distract me from my question.
“How do you see his thoughts?”
“I just do. You know.” He shrugged and blinked several times, those long dark lashes sweeping over green, evasive eyes.
“No, I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.”
He frowned. “Don’t you have some soup to eat?” he said abruptly, his voice sulky and his face sullen.
“It can wait.”
He snorted. “Go. Eat.”
“Not you too!”
“Soup, Beauchamp!” he snapped. “You’re wasting away.”
I scowled. “I have so many questions for you.”
“Do you, now?”
