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“Did I ever what?” he asked, enjoying this far too much.

She groaned. “Court? Date? What’s the right term for it?”

He’d had lovers. Plenty of them. His duties kept him busy, always rushing from one emergency to the next. He knew he had expectations placed on him—marry, have children, pass the estate along. Patty had taken care of that part, at least.

“Courting, yes. But no. I didn’t have the time. I had my own private relationships over the years but never anyone more serious than that.”

Avery stared at the thistle with longing. “I think you would have been quite good at it. Courting,” she added, when his brows rose in surprise. “Not—not the other thing. Well, I mean—I’m sure you were fine at the other parts. Not that I’m thinking about it. Oh, god. Tell me to stop.”

Wolfe laughed, utterly charmed. “No, please. Continue. Your blush is so pretty, grá. Go on then and imagine me.” The words were said without thinking and Avery’s mouth popped open in shock.

He found he could not regret them.

No part of him felt like a ghost.

He felt like himself.

Like a man walking beside a woman so beautiful it drove him to distraction. Perhaps he wanted her to think of him as the same, not as just some wandering and lost spirit that had been unable to move on.

But as he’d once been.

What he could have been for her, had he been allowed.

He shifted her arm closer, until the backs of her fingers pressed against his ribs.

If he had a heart, it would be racing.

If he had a heart, he was sure she’d be able to feel it.

“I’ve rendered you speechless,” he purred. “How fascinating.”

She swatted at him, hand colliding into the vibration of all that he was.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve heard,” he whispered conspiratorially. “For more than one reason.”

Her laugh was a sharp crack of thunder. It was a lovely sound.

“Let’s go, menace.” She tugged him along and he followed, nearly tripping over his boots to stay near her.

It felt like a cruel joke or a sick twist of fate. Here now was a woman who tempted him and intrigued him. Who spoke to him as if they were simply old friends reacquainting after some time away. Someone whose soul spoke to his own, a secret language of longing that so few were fluent in.

He thought that if she could split herself open, mirror herself against him, they would find themselves in alignment, a constellation undiscovered.

For the first time in a long time, Wolfe found himself wishing that he was real in all the ways that mattered.

Chapter 13

I found myself outside Tommy and Moira’s Sunday night, fingers clenching and unclenching anxiously around my book.

“You’ll be grand,” Wolfe whispered in my ear. “Pretend you’re talking to me.”

I wanted to huff. Or laugh. Talking to Wolfe felt like playing mental chess. That didn’t have the calming effect he thought it did.

“Sure, just stare at a blank corner and chat. They won’t think I’m insane.”

Wolfe rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets. Against the darkening sky, his linen shirt looked like a beacon.