That seemed strange, since she’d been out of the house for almost two weeks, but she wasn’t asking questions, wasn’t saying more to him than she needed to. As much as she dreaded going in the house, she couldn’t sleep while she was such a mess, and without a word, she made her way inside.

The kitchen door gave its familiar creak, and the old house embraced her, still smelling faintly of damp, coffee, and the ancient gas stove. He flipped on the overhead light. She’d vowed not to look at him, but she couldn’t help herself. His eyes were red-rimmed and his beard stubble villainous. But it was what she didn’t see behind him that surprised her. “What happened to your table?”

He acted as if he needed to search his memory. “Uh … Yeah … Woodpile.”

“You got rid of your precious table?”

His jaw tightened, and he sounded unnecessarily defensive. “I kept getting splinters from it.”

He’d thrown her off balance, and she was even more disconcerted when she noticed something else was missing. “What about your pig?”

“Pig?” He’d acted as though he’d never heard the word.

“Fat little guy,” she snapped. “Speaks French.”

He shrugged. “I got rid of some stuff.”

“Your pig?”

“What do you care? You hated that pig.”

“I know,” she sneered. “But hating it gave my life focus, and now that’s gone.”

Instead of delivering a counterpunch, he smiled and took her in. “God, you’re a mess.”

His tenderness made her heart constrict, and she threw up her defenses. “Save it for somebody who cares.” She stalked toward the hall.

He moved behind her. “I want you to know … I … care about you. It’s going to be hard not seeing you. Talking to you.”

His gruff, begrudging admission was salt in her open wounds, and she whirled around. “Fucking me?”

“Don’t say that.”

She curled her lip at his indignation. “What? Didn’t I use the word right?”

“Look, I know I pissed you off at the beach, but … What was I supposed to say? If I were a different person …”

“Stop right there.” She thrust up her chin. “I already dumped you. This isn’t necessary.”

“You were in a vulnerable place this summer, and I took advantage of that.”

“Is that what you think?” She wouldn’t let him shatter her pride, and she charged toward him. “Believe me, Patrick, my eyes were wide open through our tawdry little affair.”

But he wouldn’t let it go. “I’m a Detroit roughneck, Lucy. You’re American royalty. I’ve been through too much. I’m not good for you.”

“Got it,” she sneered. “You were put through hell as a kid, hell as a cop, so you’re taking a pass on life’s messy stuff.”

“That’s not true.”