We don’t kiss that night. I yearn to more than I ever have before, but my body still aches from residual pain of my panic attack and the fear of what almost happened with Lyons, and I know he can sense it. He walks me to the back side of my cottage in the cover of the woods, gives me one, last, warm embrace, and waits for me to slip safely inside before leaving.
I don’t have any premonitions that night, which is good, because I don’t think I could handle them if I did. I do dream of Jesse, though—of the roughness of his hands, the comfort of his embrace, and the strength of his lips.
Emerick comes to check on me the next morning. He’s got a steaming pot of soup with him, which I won’t deny is kind of sweet. I accept it with as much gratitude as I can muster and politely tell him that, wh
