“Chester?” I called. My hand was on the light switch by the front door, but I wasn’t ready to flip it and throw the whole place into stark relief.

“Re-oooow,” Chester answered.

My spirits lifted. I turned on the lights.

Chester was there, all right. He hopped down off my desk chair—maybe he’d been surfing the Web—and trotted toward me.

At the same time, Nick meandered out of the kitchen, sniffing an Oreo.

“I’m getting really tired of this,” I said, but secretly I was glad of the company. Well, I was glad of Chester’s company, anyway, and I could put up with Nick.

I set the trash bag down, along with my purse, so I could hoist Chester up for a cuddle.

“Most people,” Nick observed, “carry garbage out, not in.”

“Don’t start,” I said.

“You look awful.”

“Batting a thousand, as usual. You need to sign up for a course in Remedial Tact as soon as you bust out of the train station. And what’s with the Oreo-sniffing?”

Nick cocked his handsome ghost head to one side. “Touchy,” he said.

Chester butted the underside of my chin with his head, purring like crazy. My arms tightened around him, just a little. I wanted more than anything to cry, so I didn’t.

“Your voice mail is probably full,” Nick informed me. “The phone’s been ringing ever since you left here yesterday.”

Was it only yesterday that I’d packed my trash bag and hit the road?

God, it seemed as if I’d been gone a week.

“I’m surprised you didn’t take messages,” I said. I dropped into the easy chair, still holding Chester. “That way, you could have butted into my business in a really focused way.” I glanced at the computer. Wondered if he’d been reading my e-mail.

Nick sighed and perched elegantly on the arm of the sofa. Tugged irritably at his cuffs. “I have better things to do than listen in on telephone calls,” he said, with icy dignity. “Or read e-mail.”

I stiffened. Did a little mental backtracking. No. I definitely had not mentioned the e-mail out loud.

Nick grinned.

“You can read my mind?” I snapped.

“Only some of the time,” he said, and did the cuff-tugging thing again. This time, it wasn’t a sign of irritation. It was him being smug.

“That really bites!” I considered protective noggin gear. All I had on hand was a roll of Reynold’s wrap, so I discarded the idea.

Nick chuckled. “You wouldn’t actually swath your head in tin foil, would you? It’s an amusing image, though.”

“Shut up.”

He softened visibly. “Tough times, huh?”

“Stop trespassing in my brain. It’s a restricted area.”

“Sorry,” Nick said. He examined the Oreo, sniffed it once more, and set it on the coffee table, albeit reluctantly. “Forgive me yet?”

“Not a chance,” I replied.

Nick sighed.