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As he sipped the beer, the puppy he thought safely sleeping—finally—gave a yip. Then, looking up at Nash with adoring eyes, peed a river on the floor.
“Jesus Christ, what was I thinking?”
In Drea’s apartment, after slipping out of another party early, she snuggled with Theo on her sofa. They watched the same ball drop together.
When they kissed, it was long, slow, sweet, and exactly the way she wanted to end one year and start the next.
“Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year, Theo.”
On-screen, thousands cheered, but when he kissed her again, he heard nothing but the quiet hum in her throat.
He made himself shift away—because how much could a man take—and top off the champagne she’d opened when they’d come back from a party.
He left his own single glass half-full, then clinked it to hers.
“I did the Times Square thing once. Once was enough. It’s insane.”
“Clearly.” She reached for the bottle poured more into his glass.
“I really need to keep it to one. It’s not far to drive, but—”
“Smart and responsible.” Drea lifted her own glass, watching him over it. “And I wonder, are you always this slow?”
“Slow?”
“We’ve been dating for about a month now, and I wonder why you’ve never asked to stay.” After another sip, she smiled all the way into her eyes. “Then again, it might be you just don’t want to sleep with me.”
“I…” Words failed him, so while she watched him, lips curved just the perfect amount, he dug some out. “I do. I—I think about you all the time. The first time I saw you, it was like getting hit by lightning. It was so fast, hell, instant for me. I wanted to give you time. I want to give you time and space.”
“Theo, when I want time and space, I’ll ask for it, or I’ll take it. I think, in these first minutes of a brand-new year, I’m telling you time’s up.”
She set her glass down. Rising, she held out a hand. “Why don’t you come with me?”
“That’s a really good idea.”
In their cozy house, Clara and Sam also had champagne. The label couldn’t compare to what Drea opened, but the bubbles added sparkle.
They had sex before midnight—to end the old year. And after, to ring in the new. In between, they watched the recordings and munched on chips and salsa. With a little blood of the resurrected adding some sparkle there.
She found Arthur Rigsby the best yet.
Not because he’d begged, promised to tell no one, offered them money. Mostly they all did that at some point.
But because he’d spoken of looking down at his own body, how it felt like he’d been bathed in warm light while he had.
He’d spoken of his life running through his head like a movie on a screen, and how he’d felt disappointed he hadn’t done more, taken more chances, enjoyed some forbidden fruit.
Clara paused his recording. “He’s so detailed, doll. I know he’s blubbering, but it’s what he’s saying. How he felt sad because he’d married while he was in the dental college, and worked so hard, raised two kids. He got to be a grandfather and what the hell there? How he felt he’d never really lived, and now he was dead before sixty.”
Though he trusted her above all, Sam shook his head. “Blubbering, begging, and whining’s what I hear when we review that one.”
“But hefelt, doll. We’ve gone half and half with the four we set free before this one. Two said how they didn’t see or hear anything. One said he saw a light, heard his mother’s voice, and the other said she heard her daughter calling and crying while she did the CPR on her. Rigsby, well, he breaks the tie, doesn’t he?”
“I guess he does.”
“And more, Rigsby felt. Emotion, Sam. Before they pulled him back, he felt sad and angry and disappointed.”