different now that he was fully awake, watching her over the remains of
the breakfast she'd fixed him. "I know you've been busy the last few
weeks."
"Tackling crime single-handed. Conroy, you lazy mutt, go fetch."
The dog opened one eye and grumbled. "Go on." He gave what sounded like
a very human sigh as he dragged himself up and out. "You've been
avoiding me, Emma."
She started to deny it. "Yes. I'm sorry. You've been a good friend,
and I-"
"If you start on that friendship-and-gratitude business again, you're
only going to piss me off." He took the pack of cigarettes Conroy
dropped in his lap, then rose to let the dog out.
"I won't mention it again."
"Good." He turned back. Six months he'd waited, hoping she'd come
knocking on his door. Now that she had, he couldn't kick the anger.
"Why did you come here?"
"I told you."
"You wanted company while you took some pictures, and you thought about
good old Michael."
She set the bottle of ginger ale down and rose stiffly. "Obviously I
should have thought again. I'm sorry I disturbed you."
"Walk in and walk out," he murmured. "That's a bad habit of yours,
Emma."
"I didn't come here to fight with you."
"That's too damn bad. It's long past time we had this out."
He took a step toward her. She retreated. Nothing she could have done
would have infuriated him more.
"I'm not Latimer, goddammit. I'm sick to death of you thinking of him
every time I get close. If we're going to fight, it's going to be you
and me and nobody else."
"I don't want to fight." Before she'd realized she'd done it, she picked
up the bottle and threw it. Glass and ginger ale exploded in the sink.
She stood, stunned, as the fizzing died away.
"Want another?"
"I have to go." She reached for her camera, but he moved and laid a hand
over hers.
"Not this time." His voice wasn't calm. When she looked up at him, she
braced, waiting. "You're not going to walk out on me again, Emma. Not
until I've said what I need to say."
"Michael-"
"Just shut up. I've wanted you for as long as I can remember. That day
all those years ago, that day on the beach when I took you home, I had
such a crush on you I could hardly see. I was barely seventeen and I
couldn't think of anyone but you for weeks after. I haunted that beach,
waiting for you to come back."
"I couldn't." She turned away, but made no attempt to leave.
"I got over it." Michael shook a cigarette out of the pack then slammed
through the kitchen drawers looking for a match. "I thought I'd gotten
over it, and then you came back. There I am minding my own business,
cutting the lawn, and you're standing in front of me. I could hardly