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After drying off, she went through her suitcase and looked in drawers for what she needed. Because it was heading into winter, and because she had been moving from Tennessee to New York, she had packed lots of extras, including her comfy pajamas, the ones she wore when the temperatures were cold—those nights when she came in from work and hadn’t warmed the house.
The top and bottoms were old and thin from many washings. But the pale lavender flannel was so soft. Once upon a time, it had been covered in pink hearts. The design had mostly faded now.
When she looked in the mirror to brush her hair, she winced. Intimacy wouldn’t be a problem tonight. She looked like the least attractive woman on the planet.
She found a pair of gray wool socks and put them on, hoping her feet would thaw. It wasn’t cold in the apartment, but she was shivering.
In Wynn’s bedroom, the covers had been turned back on his king-size bed. It was clear that he slept on the left side. She saw his book and his watch on the nightstand. So she climbed in on the right.
The shaking was worse now. She curled into a ball and wrapped her arms around her knees.
Wynn came out of the bathroom wearing navy knit sleep pants and a soft white T-shirt. His hair was tousled and damp.
He turned off the overhead light but left the lamp on the bedside table burning. When he slid under the covers, he reached for her. “Put your back against my chest,” he said.
It never occurred to her to protest. Wynn’s embrace offered warmth and protection and a promise she wouldn’t be alone for the next eight hours. “I’m sorry,” she said, her teeth almost chattering.
“For what?”
She felt his breath on the back of her neck. “I can’t stop shaking.”
He rubbed her arm, the one he could reach. “I really think a tiny shot of Scotch would make you feel better.”
“Okay, fine,” she said. But inside, she protested silently when he left the bed.
He was back in no time, carrying a little glass. “Sit up,” he said. “Can you hold this without spilling it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Scoot against the headboard.”
Felicity was embarrassed. Her body was out of her control. She hated feeling this way.
Wynn sat on the edge of the bed and put the glass to her lips. “Drink it all at once if you can.”
She put her hand over his, drew the glass to her lips, tossed back her head and swallowed the liquid in one rapid sequence. The alcohol burned going down and set her stomach on fire. She choked and gasped. “That’s dreadful,” she complained.
Wynn grinned. “Actually, it’s not. Twenty-five-year-old whiskey from a centuries-old distillery in Scotland deserves respect.”
“If you say so.”
He took the empty glass and returned to his own side of the bed, climbing under the covers and spooning her as he had before.
Felicity hated to admit it, but the spreading warmth of the liquor was helping. That and Wynn’s big body cradling hers. She closed her eyes, but she wasn’t sleepy. Shock and disbelief made her weak and woozy, untethered to reality.
Wynn’s big hand stroked her hair. “You’re not asleep yet.”
“No.”
“You can talk to me, Fliss. I’ll listen. And I won’t try to fix everything. I’m told that’s a masculine trait that drives women nuts.”
His droll comment elicited a laugh. It was croaky, and she was surprised she could laugh in this situation, but the thought of Wynn trying to evolve was humorous.
She sighed. “It’s not like we saw each other often,” she said, “but I knew he was alive. On the planet. And we would talk and text a few times a month. He was my daddy. He raised me. All on his own, for the most part. I feel so guilty.”
Wynn curled an arm around her, just below her breasts. “Then we’re on the same page. I couldn’t save my own sister. Talk about guilt.”
“Yeah. I get that.” Felicity was silent for several minutes, absorbing the peace of the odd situation. She would face hard days ahead. But right now, in this moment, things were okay. “Thank you,” she said.
