Page 52 of Dream Lake

The cat gobbled up the treat ferociously, looking like the kind of pet that would eat its owner.

“Isn’t it against the health code to let him in here?” Alex asked.

“Byron’s not allowed near the dining or food-prep areas. And he only visits the kitchen for a few minutes a day. Most of the time he sleeps on the porch or in the back cottage.” She came to collect Alex’s plate. The front of the apron gaped to reveal just enough lush cleavage to make him light-headed. He dragged his gaze up to Zoë’s face.

“You get grumpy,” she said gently, “after you’ve had too much to drink.”

“No,” Alex said, “I get grumpy when I’ve stopped.”

She looked at him closely. “You mean for good?”

Alex gave her an abbreviated nod. There were countless reasons for him to quit, but the one that mattered most was that he didn’t want to need anything that much. He’d been caught off guard by the realization of how dependent he’d become on booze. It had been easy to delude himself into thinking it wasn’t a problem because he wasn’t disheveled and homeless, had never been arrested. He was still functional. But after what had happened that morning, he couldn’t deny that he had a problem.

It was one thing to be a heavy drinker. It was another to become a full-blown alcoholic.

Zoë went to take his dishes to the sink. “From what I’ve heard,” she said over her shoulder, “it’s not an easy habit to break.”

“I’m about to find out.” Alex stood from the table. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning for the check.”

“Come early,” Zoë said without hesitation. “I’m making oatmeal.”

Their gazes met across the room.

“I don’t like oatmeal,” Alex said.

“You’ll like mine.”

Alex couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away. She was so soft-looking, so radiant, and he let himself think, just for a moment, about the way she would feel under him. The magnitude of his attraction to her was nearly overwhelming. He wanted things from her that he’d never wanted from anyone, things beyond sex, and none of it was possible. It was like standing at the edge of a cliff, fighting not to fall while the wind pushed at his back.

As Zoë returned his stare, rampant color washed over her face, contrasting with the brilliant pale gold of her hair. “What is your favorite food?” she asked, as if the question were profoundly intimate.

“I don’t have a favorite food.”

“Everyone has a favorite.”

“I don’t.”

“There must be some—” A timer interrupted her. “Seven-thirty,” she said. “I have to pour coffee for the first guests. Don’t go, I’ll be right back.”

When Zoë returned, however, Alex was gone. A sticky note had been applied to the backsplash above the sink, with a word written in black ink:

THANKS

Zoë took the note in her hand, drawing her thumb over the surface. A sweet, terrible ache filled her chest.

Sometimes, she thought, you could rescue a person from trouble. But some kinds of trouble, a person had to rescue himself from.

All she could do for Alex was hope.

Fourteen

Alex was tormented by nightmares from midnight to dawn, his body jerking as if he’d been hit with an electric current. He dreamed of demons sitting at the foot of his bed, waiting to tear at him with long sharp claws, or of the ground opening beneath him and letting him fall into endless darkness. In one dream he was hit by a car on a dark road, the impact knocking him backward onto hard midnight asphalt. He stood over the unconscious body on the road, looking down at his own face. He was dead.

Startled awake, Alex sat up in bed. He was soaked in sweat, the sheets sticking to him in a clammy film. A bleary glance at the clock revealed that it was two in the morning.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

The ghost was nearby. “Go get some water,” he said. “You’re dehydrated.”

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