Free Kiss in the Dark by Jenna Mills

necessary.” Dylan eased back the thick down comforter. “If you’re not going to eat, you at least need to sleep. You need your strength.”
    Who was this man? she wondered in some faraway corner of her mind. No way was she walking across the room and joining him anywhere near that big bed. Just seeing him running his hand along the crisp white sheets was bad enough. “I don’t need you to tuck me in, Dylan.”
    “Who said anything about tucking you in?”
    Beth closed her eyes and counted to ten. She’d been right before. The past twenty-four hours had left her defenses in tatters. And being in the same room as Dylan St. Croix without defenses was like going to the equator without sunblock.
    “You should go,” she told him, reaching for the numbness that always dissolved around him. “I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself.” Had to, even if the way the room swayed made her wonder if stepping into Dylan’s arms would make it stop. “I have a lot of calls to make.”
    He frowned. “I’ve already taken care of it.”
    “Taken care of what?” she asked more sharply than she intended.
    “The funeral.”
    The two words brought every horrific second of the past sixteen hours barreling back. The darkened house and the blow to her head, waking up on the floor, the blood on her hands. The accusations. The brutal finality of it all. A funeral. Of course there had to be a funeral. But…
    “You shouldn’t have done that, Dylan. Lance was my…” Husband. The word lodged in her throat. No, he wasn’t her husband. Somehow, after six years, it was still hard to remember. Old habits, she figured.
    Before she could blink, Dylan was across the room and taking her shoulders in his hands. “He wasn’t your husband anymore, Bethany.”
    She lifted her chin. “Don’t call me Bethany.”
    “Would you rather I call you sweetheart?” he asked softly.
    Memories tumbled forward, dusty and threadbare, completely unwanted. “I go by Beth.”
    “You pretend to be Beth,” he countered. “You want to be Beth. Beth is nice and safe. Beth fits in. But deep inside, the passionate woman named Bethany still lives.” He slid a hand to the back of her head, gently skimming the gash.
    “You and I both know that, just like we know your marriage had been over a lot longer than you’re admitting.”
    A fact the cops wanted to use against her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Don’t I?” he asked in a dangerously quiet voice “When was the last time you and Lance made love? Do you even remember?”
    She stiffened. “You have no right—”
    “Since when has that stopped me?”
    Words of denial formed, but emotion clogged her throat. Dylan was right. She’d called Lance husband for six years but they’d quit living as man and wife long before he’d walked out. She didn’t know the last time they’d shared breakfast, a joke, a bed.
    “What happened, Bethany? Tell me.”
    The sharp stab of longing was ridiculous, that she could accept his concern at face value. But she also knew silence opened the door for him to form his own conclusions, conclusions more dangerous than the truth.
    “Nothing happened,” she said woodenly. “That’s just it. Lance and I worked long hours, and after a while, being alone seemed normal. It wasn’t until he moved out that I realized what a farce our marriage had become.”
    “Is that why you never became parents?”
    She pulled from him and put distance between them, drew a few deep breaths, tried to ignore the subtle aroma of clove and sandalwood that was all Dylan.
    “I wanted children,” she said, and felt the ache in her heart. “Right up to the end. Call me a fool, but I always thought children would fill the gap somehow. Give us something to love.”
    Dylan frowned, but his eyes gentled. “Because you didn’t love Lance.”
    The truth lay at her feet, but acknowledging it seemed wrong. Because she had loved Lance. Once. A long time ago. But it had been