She recognized the ache spreading inside her. The same ache, she thought, she woke with whenever she dreamed of him. She moved past him, into the living room, praying she could think of something to say that wouldn’t sound idiotic.

“If you came here to relax,” he began with just a hint of impatience in his voice, “you’re doing a preciously poor job of it. Sit down and stop fretting. The storm won’t stay long, and neither will I.”

“I like the company. I’m not used to being alone for such long stretches of time.”

She sat, managing a smile. But he stood by the fire, leaned against the mantel. He watched her. Watched her in a way that reminded her of—

“Isn’t that why you came here?” He said it to interrupt her thoughts before they inched too close to what she wasn’t prepared to know. “To have time alone?”

“Yes. And I like it. But it’s odd just the same. I was a teacher for a long time. I’m used to having a lot of people around.”

“Do you like them?”

“Them? Students?”

“No, people.” He made a vague and oddly dismissive gesture with one elegant hand. “In general.”

“Why … yes.” She laughed a little, leaning back in her chair without being aware her shoulders had lost their knots of tension. “Don’t you?”

“Not particularly—as a rule.” He took a sip of wine, reflecting. “So many of them are demanding, selfish, self-absorbed. And while that’s not so much of a problem, they often hurt each other quite consciously, quite carelessly. There’s no point, and there should be no pride in causing harm.”

“Most people don’t mean to.” She saw the light in his eye and shook her head. “Oh, you’re cynical. I can’t understand cynics.”

“That’s because you’re a romantic, and a naive one at that. But it’s charming on you.”

“Now, should I be flattered or insulted?” she wondered aloud, smiling with more ease than she’d ever felt with him, even when he moved to sit at the ottoman in front of her chair.

“Truth can be accepted without either. What do you teach?”

“Literature—or I used to.”

“That would explain the books.” They were stacked on the coffee table and in a box beside the couch. He’d seen others piled on the kitchen table and knew there were still more in her bedroom upstairs.

“Reading’s one of my greatest pleasures. I love sliding into a story.”

“But this …” He leaned back, reached over and plucked up the top book on the table. “The Study of Wolves, Their History and Habits. That wouldn’t be a story, would it?”