Now I glanced at Beau, at Coco, at Célie, praying one of them would stir. Hoping they’d open their eyes and interrupt. But they didn’t wake. They slept on, heedless of my inner struggle.

I loved Lou. I knew that. Felt it in my bones.

I also couldn’t stand the sight of her.

What was wrong with me?

Anger cracked open as she moved her lips against my ear, nibbling the lobe. Too many teeth. Too much tongue. Another wave of revulsion swept through me. Why? Was it because she was still mourning? Because I was? Because she’d attacked her supper like a rabid animal, because she’d only blinked twice in the past hour? I mentally shook myself, irritated with Beau. With myself. She’d been stranger than usual, yes, but that didn’t justify the way my skin crawled when she touched me.

Worse still, these thoughts—this looming dread, this unsettling aversion—they felt like a betrayal. Lou deserved better than this.

Swallowing hard, I turned to meet her lips. She kissed me back enthusiastically, without hesitation, and my guilt only deepened. She didn’t seem to sense my reluctance, however. She pressed closer instead. Rocked her hips against mine. Clumsy. Eager. When she again dropped her mouth to my throat, sucking at my rapid pulse, I shook my head in defeat. It was no good. My hands descended on her shoulders.

“We need to talk.”

The words came of their own volition. She blinked in surprise, and what looked like . . . insecurity flickered in her pale eyes. I hated myself for it. I’d seen Lou insecure approximately twice in our entire relationship, and neither instance had boded well for us. It vanished as quickly as it’d come, however, replaced by a wicked gleam. “That involves tongues, yes?”

Gently, firmly, I slid her from my lap. “No. It doesn’t.”

“Are you sure?” Crooning, she leaned into me seductively. Or at least, that was her intent. But the movement lacked her usual finesse. I leaned back, studying her overbright eyes. Her flushed cheeks.

“Is something wrong?”

Tell me what it is. I’ll fix it.

“You tell me.” Again, her hands sought my chest. I seized them with tightly leashed frustration, squeezing her icy fingers in warning.

“Talk to me, Lou.”

“What would you like to talk about, darling husband?”

I took a deep breath, still watching her closely. “Ansel.”

His name fell between us like a carcass. Heavy. Dead.

“Ansel.” She tugged her hands away with a frown. Her eyes grew distant. Shuttered. She stared at a spot just over my shoulder, her pupils expanding and contracting in tiny, nearly imperceptible movements. “You want to talk about Ansel.”

“Yes.”

“No,” she said flatly. “I want to talk about you.”

My own eyes narrowed. “I don’t.”