Page 121 of Cold, Cold Bones

I did catch the part about the failed Valentine’s Day surprise. The apology for his recent lack of communication. Something about toppled cell phone towers in Saint Martin. Or somewhere.

Ryan’s hair was disheveled, the lines and creases in his face deepened by fatigue. But then, I wouldn’t have been mistaken for Sandra Bullock.

For every alcoholic, no matter the years or decades sober, thereare times when the body craves booze. Or wine. Or beer. Whatever your preferred poison. This was one of them. But I wanted more than a drink, I wanted a whole bottle of Pinot Noir. Or Cab. Or Merlot. One I could pour from until the blessed ruby liquid was gone.

Forget it, Brennan. The cork’s staying in.

The object lay on a side table by my chair, now sealed in a Ziploc bag. I couldn’t look at it. Instead, I watched Ryan. He wore jeans and a teal polo. Good choice. The colors complemented his eyes like a blue spinnaker against a summer sky.

Eventually, the tea kicked in. Or maybe it was Ryan’s presence. My heartbeat slowed. My skin relaxed on my flesh.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I overreacted.”

“You didn’t. Of course, you were scared. Some goon jumps out of the dark and grabs you? It was a stupid move.”

“I’m glad you’re here.” Not disagreeing with his assessment.

Ryan crossed to me and lowered his face to mine. The blue lasers almost stopped my heart. “I couldn’t wait to hug you.”

I raised both arms and wrapped his neck. He pulled me to my feet. I felt the roughness of his stubble on my cheek. Inhaled the familiar scent of male sweat and sandalwood soap, a hint of something island spicy.

My eyes drifted to the Ziploc. To the sunflower locket inside. To the inscription visible through the clear plastic.Tú eres mi sol.

No. Not now.

I allowed Ryan to take my hand and lead me upstairs.

I awoke to the smell of coffee. Bacon?

Momentary confusion.

Recall.

Ryan.

Romping away my distress.

My stomach did that little flippy thing.

I threw on a robe and a smile and hurried downstairs.

Ryan was at the stove wearing jeans and a long-sleeve tee that saidBe You Bravely. His hair looked largely unchanged from last night. He turned, a small tong in one hand.

“Petit déjeuner, madame?”

“Damn right, I want breakfast.” Taking a place at the table. Which was set with mats, napkins, napkin rings, and all.

Ryan served plates of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and what I think he meant to be grits. I hoped the expiration date on the package had been within this century.

We were adding salt and pepper when Slidell showed up. I buttered my toast. Ryan got up to let him in.

“Christ on a crawdad, Doc. Let me see it.”

My eyes rolled to the baby blues. Ryan retook his place opposite me. Obviously, he’d phoned Skinny.

“It’s in the parlor,” Ryan said, never breaking our gaze.

Slidell blustered out of the room, back in, Ziploc in hand.