Page 119 of Twisted Temptation

"He is clearly not a ghost. He was in the mess hall eating soup in the previous scene. Ghosts do not eat soup."

"That's the whole point. He thinks he's eating soup. But he's not. He's dead. He's been dead since his plane went down at the beginning of the movie."

There’s silence as I hear Charles processing this.

"That is absurd," he finally says.

"It's a paranormal movie about a haunted battleship, Charles. The whole thing is absurd. That's why it's so good."

"It is not good. The captain has made three operationally unsound decisions in the last twenty minutes alone. No commanding officer worth his weight would dream of doing that for fear of being court-martialed."

"The dead man was his brother. It's called grief, Charles."

"It's called poor seamanship."

I shove a cracker into my mouth and grin. Getting Charles to watch this movie took a lot of negotiation.

"Just keep watching," I say. "It gets better."

"It could hardly get any worse."

I laugh with a mouth full of crackers, my legs swinging off the counter, the phone tucked between my ear and shoulder. Charles is proving to be a wonderful BFF, especially on the nights when Dante has to work late.

Charles grumbles again, and I laugh, but when the elevator doors open and Dante walks in, my laugh dies in my throat.

My husband looks emotionally destroyed.

His face is tight, and his eyes burn with torment. He looks like a man who has been pulled apart and put back together wrong.

"Charles, I have to go," I say. "I'll call you back later."

I hang up and set the phone on the counter beside me.

Dante drops his keys on the coffee table and walks straight to me. He crosses the kitchen and steps between my legs where I sit on the counter. His arms go around me, and he buries his face in my neck.

I wrap my arms around his head and hold him against me as emotion pours off him. My fingers find the back of his neck and start to stroke.

"Hey," I say softly. " What's going on?"

He doesn't answer and presses his lips against my throat like he needs the contact.

"Talk to me." I cup his jaw and make him look at me.

His eyes tell me he’s just been to hell and back.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"I'm okay," he says. But his voice is rough.

He lifts his hands to my face and cups my jaw the same way I'm cupping his.

"Are you?" he asks.

The question is so quiet and so loaded that my stomach drops.

"Am I what?"

"Okay."