Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(59)

Alex paused at the door of his truck and regarded the ghost with a contemplative scowl. “Because you wouldn’t,” he finally said. “I’m stuck with you.”

“So you’re not an existentialist,” the ghost said smugly. “You’re still just an ass**le.”

Sixteen

“You look good,” were the first words Darcy uttered when Alex opened the front door. Her tone was inflected with mild surprise, as if she’d expected to find him sprawled in a pile of empty cough syrup bottles and drug paraphernalia.

“So do you,” Alex said.

Darcy lived and dressed as if she were the subject of a fashion magazine layout, ready for photographs to be taken at random angles. Her exterior was a hard, brilliant gloss of perfect makeup and retail chic. Her blouse was unfastened one more button than necessary, her hair flat-ironed and expertly highlighted. If she had any deeper goals than acquiring money by any and all means available, she had never expressed them. Alex didn’t blame her for that. He knew without a doubt that she would marry again soon, to some wealthy and well-connected man from whom she would eventually garner an immense divorce settlement. Alex didn’t blame her for that, either. She had never pretended to be anything other than what she was.

Pleasantries were exchanged as Darcy introduced the stager, an artfully made-up woman of indeterminate age, with layered hair that had been sprayed until it didn’t move. Her name was Amanda. Darcy and the stager wandered through the sparely furnished house, occasionally asking questions that obliged Alex to follow in their wake. The place was scrupulously clean, every wall freshened with touch-up paint, the lighting and plumbing in perfect working order, the landscaping tidy with beds of new mulch.

Darcy had set a Vuitton overnight bag inside the front entranceway. Alex glanced at it with a frown, having hoped that Darcy wouldn’t stay after the stager had left. The prospect of making conversation with his ex-wife was depressing. They had run out of things to say to each other even before the divorce.

The prospect of ha**ng s*x with his ex-wife was even more depressing. No matter if his body was clamoring to fire one off, no matter if Darcy was hot and willing … it wasn’t going to happen. Because the problem with having tried something new and amazing was that you could never go back and take the same pleasure in the thing you used to enjoy. You could never erase the awareness that somewhere out there was a better experience you weren’t having. You knew you were eating a canned biscuit after you’d tried a fluffy, tender homemade one with a crisp buttered top, the whole of it split open and doused with honey.

“You should tell Darcy before she decides to stay,” the ghost said, lounging nearby.

“Tell her what?”

“That you’re not going to sleep with her.”

“What makes you think I’m not?”

The ghost had the effrontery to grin. “Because you’re looking at that bag like it’s full of live cobras.” The smile changed, gentling at the edges. “And Darcy doesn’t fit with your new direction.”

The ghost had been in a strange mood the past few days, impatient, eager, worried, and most of all filled with a burning quicksilver joy at the knowledge that he would see Emma soon. It rattled Alex to be in the vortices of such intense moods—he was having enough trouble keeping his own emotions in check. Probably the thing he missed most about drinking was how it had kept him anesthetized from that kind of turmoil.

What Alex did appreciate was that the ghost had been making an effort to give him as much space as possible, trying not to interfere. The remark he’d just made about Darcy was the only vaguely manipulative thing he’d said in days. He hadn’t uttered a word about the way Alex had kissed Zoë at the cottage. In fact, he’d actually pretended not to notice. For his part, Alex had tried like hell to forget it.

Except that part of his brain had locked around it, viselike, and wouldn’t let go. Zoë’s sparkling blue eyes looking up into his, the provocative way she had lifted on her toes and molded herself against him. He had never been so overwhelmed by anyone, by the idea that he might actually have made a woman happy for a moment. And she had moved with him so easily, letting him do whatever he wanted. She would be like that in bed, open to anything. Trusting him.

Christ.

If that happened, before long he would have turned her into someone else entirely, someone cynical, angry, guarded. Like Darcy. That was what happened to women who got mixed up with him.

After a couple of hours of discussing ideas and looking at photos and designs on an electronic tablet, Amanda said it was time to leave. She didn’t want to miss the late afternoon ferry.

“I’ll take Amanda to Friday Harbor and pick up something for dinner,” Darcy told Alex. “How does Italian sound?”

“You’re staying overnight?” Alex asked reluctantly.

Darcy looked sardonic. “You saw my bag.” A quick blink of annoyance as she saw his face. “You don’t have a problem with that, I hope. Considering the fact that it’s my house.”

“I’m maintaining it and paying the bills until it sells,” he said. “Not a bad deal for you.”

“True.” She smiled, her gaze provocative. “Maybe I’ll give you a bonus later.”

“Not necessary.”

A little over an hour later, Darcy returned with takeout boxes of pasta marinara and salads. They plated the food and sat at the kitchen table, just as they had done while they were married. Since neither of them cooked, they had lived on takeout and frozen dinners, or had eaten at restaurants.