“You’ve never even said her name out loud. You write it on your body in indelible ink, but you won’t speak of her.”

I captured her wrist and pulled her hand away from the tattoo. “Because. There is nothing. To. Say,” I repeated between clenched teeth. What I didn’t tell her was that it hurt too much to talk about her, to think of her. The only times I did were when my subconscious mind took me to that unpleasant place, that land of loss and loneliness.

Her brown eyes found mine. “You don’t think it would help to talk about her? You’d rather just bury her in your heart, keep her secret? Even from me?”

I shrugged. “What are you to me right now that I should tell you? Are you my girlfriend or are you just the woman I hooked up with last night?”

Her lip trembled again and she caught it between her teeth. “I don’t know.”

We stared at each other through a long, tense silence and her eyes slipped back to the tattoo.

“You can’t even tell me what she was like?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because…I think”—she glanced at me before continuing—“I think losing her has defined you. In a lot of ways.”

I grimaced and went back to toweling off to give myself something to do. “I think your degree was in biology and not psychology,” I said bluntly.

Her features clouded and I could tell she was getting upset, but I didn’t know what to say. This was so frustrating and I felt she was using this line of questioning as a diversion tactic. I ran a hand through my dripping hair. “This isn’t something I want to talk about or, really, even can talk about.”

She stared at me for a long moment, no expression on her face, then leaned forward and pushed to her feet. “I’m really hungry,” she said.

Now that I thought about it, so was I. And I was hopeful that some wine with dinner would help relax her, get her talking. So after I showered off and dressed, we had dinner down in the glassed-in breakfast nook that looked out over the dock. It was too chilly to eat outside. The sun had gone down, so we ate by candlelight. It might have been romantic if I believed in that sort of crap. Making romantic gestures toward her right now seemed phony and hollow.

It occurred to me that that thought was rather ridiculous, because here we were, eating together after having spent most of the day together. After having spent the night in each other’s company, having had some mind-blowingly good sex. In the past twenty-four hours we had been playacting at being a couple again.

But we weren’t. There was still a wall that separated us, kept us from talking. I poured her a second glass of wine, watched while she sipped at it, and hoped it would do its magic soon. Wine worked like truth serum on Emilia, I had noticed. So I was hoping this might ease our discussion along.

“Hmm. Daffodils,” she said, chewing on a small piece of bread and focusing on the centerpiece, the fresh flowers that I’d requested that Chef order for the table.

I said nothing, but continued to eat and keep close track of her wine consumption.

“Is that a coincidence?”

My fork slowed on the way to my mouth. “What?”

She nodded toward the centerpiece. “The flowers. Last night, the General SylvanWood costume. And now daffodils.”

I eyed her for a moment before looking away, shrugging. “Ah, don’t know. Guess that’s probably what they had at the florist. And Chef just got those.”

I didn’t look at her as she watched me closely. Maybe she was adding up the hints. And this hint was only for her. No one else. The costume had been a hint for everyone.

She set aside her wineglass and got up to use the bathroom. She asked for her bag and took it with her, which I found unusual, but thought little of it. I got up from the table and figured we could talk in the living room, so I waited for her on the couch, fiddling with my tablet. She took a while but finally came out, dumped her bag by the stairs and walked up to where I sat and stood in front of me.

“So…should I get going?” she asked hesitantly.

I made no move to stand up. “I don’t know. Should you?”

“Well, Scotty’s not going to beam me there…”

I patted the cushion next to me. “Emilia, can we talk, please? Or do you just want us to stay in this…limbo?”

She sank down beside me, but as she did, she wobbled a little, as if she was a little tipsy. She’d only had one full glass of wine and a few sips from the second one. She sighed and rubbed her brow. “Do you think one conversation is going to fix what’s screwed up between us?”