While she lay there, Sophie wished for the impossible—to be able to fall asleep like that every night, with Reese’s strong arms around her and his breath blowing softly in her hair. If circumstances had been different, it might have happened. She might have felt beautiful and sated and loved forever.

But her fate had been determined before she ever set eyes on Reese, long before she’d fallen in love with him. Tomorrow, she’d have to say goodbye, but at least she’d had one perfect night—and she’d always be grateful for that.

Chapter 22

Sophie awoke the next morning tangled in sheets that still smelled like Reese—only, he wasn’t there. She sat up and found him on the other side of the room, sitting at his desk, his expression sober. “Good morning,” he said.

She rubbed her eyes and blinked at him. He wore trousers but was still gloriously naked from the waist up. “Good morning,” she said, stretching. “What are you doing over there?”

He held up a small stack of envelopes, then tapped them on the surface of the desk.

“Trying to summon the nerve to open these.”

“I see,” she said, suppressing the shiver that stole over her skin. She pulled the sheet from the bed, wrapped it around her torso, and padded across the room. Leaning her bottom on the edge of the desk, she said, “You don’t have to tell me about them if you don’t want to. But if you do want to talk, I’m listening.”

He dragged a hand down his face. “They’re from Conroy’s widow. The first one arrived a couple of months ago, and … I still can’t bring myself to read it.”

“Why not?” she asked, even though she had some idea.

His face turned a shade paler. “What if she asks questions I can’t”—he swallowed—“or don’t want to answer? What if every word she writes is full of pain?”

Sophie’s heart ached for him. “You’re grieving for Conroy, just as she is. It might bring you a measure of comfort to talk to someone who knew him well and misses him as you do.”

Reese shook his head. “That’s just it. I was his friend and can hardly bear the loss. His wife must feel that tenfold—and I’m partly responsible.”

“No,” she reminded him. “You’re not.” But she understood his reluctance to read the letters, which would undoubtedly hold up a mirror to his own suffering. “Would it help if I read one of them first?”

He shook his head again, slowly. “I need to do this myself. That much I know.”

She moved behind him, leaned her chest against his back, and circled her arms around his neck, savoring the physical intimacy that was still so new and heady. “You should read them before I go. That way you won’t be alone.”