“Okay.” She let the warmth of those words flow through her. Thermodynamics. If that was true, then her father’s energy filled this house. Perhaps the heat created by her body bumped against the lingering heat of his, and the molecular evidence of his footsteps echoed hers. It still wasn’t enough.

Morgan, though, was real, and for the first time since her father’s death she allowed herself to come apart with the knowledge that one day she would, and could, put herself back together.

•   •   •

Morgan studied Emilia as she chopped garlic for the sauce and sautéed it in a fragrant olive oil. Her shoulder was still damp with Emilia’s tears.

Emilia held the wooden spoon in a practiced grip as the sound and smell of cooking garlic filled the kitchen. Her shirt had slid off one shoulder, and her hair, now piled on top of her head in a messy bun, curled in the steam. The sight of that smooth skin distracted Morgan from her thoughts. It didn’t matter that she’d already memorized the way that skin felt beneath her lips. Each memory just fueled the longing. Only the damp reminder of fresh grief restrained her from standing behind her as Emilia had stood behind Morgan on her boat, kissing her neck while her hands lifted the loose cotton of her shirt and felt the warm skin of her stomach. She tightened her grip on the counter.

Emilia chose that moment to glance over her shoulder. The side of her mouth quirked in a lopsided smile. “What?”

“You’re beautiful.”

It was the truth. No one could deny Emilia Russo was hot, but the roughness of her own voice, thick with the words she couldn’t say, invoked far more than physical beauty.

Emilia glanced down at the stove and then up again. “So are you, Morgan.”

She wanted to brush off the compliment. A joke rose to her lips, but she bit it back and instead closed the distance between them. Emilia couldn’t turn her back on the stove without burning the garlic, so Morgan wrapped her arms around her waist and rested her cheek against Emilia’s. The fragrance of her shampoo mingled with the smells of cooking. Morgan decided she could happily smell ginseng and garlic for the rest of her life.

She didn’t speak. She watched Emilia stir the garlic and accepted a strand of pasta to test, all the while aware of the sense of rightness, of belonging, that suffused her.

Had it felt this right with Kate?

Comparing Emilia to Kate was a mistake, and yet the last time she’d been in the kitchen with a woman like this had been in the apartment she’d shared with her fiancé. Comparison was inevitable.