Page 29 of Ghost Note

My eyes widened, and my face froze when I saw Danny standing on my front doorstep, staring up at me.

His hands were tucked into his trouser pockets, and more buttons of his white shirt were now opened, exposing parts of his chest I hadn’t seen in so long. Parts that were now covered in some kind of tattoo I couldn’t make out in the diluted light of the night.

Danny’s eyes didn’t stray from my face, and as I held his gaze, not saying anything, he simply tilted his head and let those eyes turn sad.

“Hey, Zee.”

“Don’t call me that,” I croaked, holding the door with a vice-like grip. “What do you want?”

“You.”

“No chance. Goodnight.”

“I just… I want to talk, Daisy.”

The way he said my name made my old heart gallop until I poured ice cold reality over it. “Listen, Danny. This game of ‘I hate you, you hate me’ we have going on is really, really tiring me out. I don’t have time for it, and quite frankly, I don’t have the heart for it, either.”

“You think I hate you?” He scowled.

“I don’t think anything about you anymore. I don’t know you.”

Danny’s mouth turned into an O shape, and he turned to look down the street I lived on as he blew out a breath. “Your words hurt more than they used to.”

“Yeah… well…” I shrugged because that was the only lame comeback I could muster.

He looked down at his smart shoes, scuffing them over the pathway before he swung his head back up to mine. “I honestly just want to talk.”

“About what?”

“Everything.”

Danny looked vulnerable, and even though the majority of me wanted to throw my left foot in between his legs, a tiny part of me found myself pushing forward and opening the door wider. My eyes rolled, and I took a step back, not looking at him as he carefully—as though he couldn’t quite believe it was happening—crossed the threshold from his world to mine.

“You have ten minutes,” I said coolly, letting the door slam shut behind him before I turned and walked into the kitchen, not caring if he was following. “Then you’re gone.”For good.

“Thank you,” he said, clearing his throat.

Once in the kitchen, I didn’t look up as I reached for two glasses from the cupboards. I didn’t look up when I grabbed the wine from the fridge, either. I just acted as though it was a normal night, and I made my way over to my little breakfast table pushed up against my little window in my little country home because everything about my life now was so damn little.

Taking a seat, I dropped the bottle and two glasses onto the table, and I waited for him to join me.

When he didn’t, I finally looked up to see him spinning in slow circles, taking everything in. My pale cream kitchen that was all my own. The country-chequered curtains, the fruit bowl that was only half full, and the small display of flowers in vases around the surfaces.

“Nice place you have here,” he said.

“Sure.”

His eyes dropped down to me, and we stared at each other for a few seconds before I looked away and brought my wine glass to my lips. If he was going to patronise my small existence, he could get out of the door right now.

“You going to take a seat? Or are you going to stand around making small talk for the eight minutes you have left.”

“I’ll sit.”

He slid into the chair opposite me, his knee accidentally knocking against mine before he straightened himself up, apologised, and cleared his throat.

“You can still pour your own drink, I assume?” I arched a brow. “Or do you have someone to do that for you now?”

“Depends where we go.”

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