He exhaled and looked at the ground. Then shook his head. “It’s not important.” He met her gaze again and smiled. “Sure am glad to see you.”
“I’m here to help with the house. Are you hurting?”
He shrugged. “I’m always hurting to some degree, but I’ve been taking breaks and stretching. I’m okay.”
She leaned her shoulder against the dumpster. “Then what’s wrong?”
“It’s just work.” He shook his head. “Not important.”
Work that would eventually take him away from her. Which was why she fought to keep her walls up. Why she held tight to the just-sex mantra. But the heart wanted what it wanted. And right now, it wanted to ease the stress in his eyes.
“Talk to me,” she said.
“My boss wants me to do an interview.” He leaned back against the side of the house, pulled off his gloves, and wiped his face with his forearm. “It’s just… It’s cutthroat, you know? And, God, so soul-sucking. No matter how much I give, it’s not enough. I’m in Syria, but they want me on the front lines. I’m on the front lines, but there aren’t enough deaths. I find the tragedies, but they aren’t dark enough. And the minute I’m off the radar, producers and editors get antsy and freelancers start circling like buzzards.”
“Jesus.” She thought she had at least some kind of handle on what he went through by covering the stories. She had no idea the networks were that demanding or that the job carried so much competition and conflict.
“You see things you can’t ever unsee,” he said. “Learn things you never wanted to know. Make decisions you never saw coming and compromises you never anticipated. I’ve sacrificed so much for this job. Don’t get me wrong, I know I made those choices. Not all of them exactly willingly, but they were mine to make, and I own that. But…” He
looked at the ground and shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Emma heard the toll those choices had taken in his voice. Longed to reach out to him and soothe his stress the way she always had, with affection and love and reassurance, but now that they’d slept together, she couldn’t see where friendship ended and romance began. “Can you tell me who they want you to interview?”
He glanced up at her, studied her eyes a second as if he was undecided.
“You don’t have to, I was just—”
“Assad.” His voice had dropped and held a rasp of fury. “And it’s more like Assad wants me to interview him. The network’s just jumping on the wagon.”
“Oh shit.” Emma’s eyes went wide. She couldn’t begin to imagine the scope of an assignment like that.
“Honestly, I don’t know if he’d get through the interview alive.” There was a darkness in Dylan’s tone she’d never heard before. “I might just kill the fucker myself.”
She reached out and took his forearm. “Dylan. This doesn’t sound…healthy. The stress you have to carry and the compromises you have to make, it can’t be good for you on any level. Stress takes a toll on the body, and after what yours has been through, you can’t afford to drain it with this kind of pressure.”
He exhaled and took her hand in his. When he looked at her again, that bleak fury was gone, but there was still something missing. “Yeah, I know.” He pulled her forward and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Sure helps seeing you. Thanks for coming over.”
She pressed her hands to his chest, but he felt so good against her, she didn’t push him away. “How can I help?”
He smiled, and his eyes rolled skyward as if he had to think about it. “A massage sounds amazing. Like you said, I’ve got to put my health first.”
“Ha.” Now she did push away, but she was smiling. He took her hand and walked her toward the house. When she stepped in, her gaze was drawn to the ceiling, and all thoughts faded into the background. Dylan had taken out the ceiling of the living, dining, and kitchen area, exposing the peaked lumber of the roof. “Oh my God.”
“Pretty cool, right?” Dylan said, following her gaze. “There was a huge attic of wasted space. All I had to do was open it up. Miranda’s coming over to check it out this afternoon. We’re going to frame up the new bathroom and add insulation in here.”
“She is?” When Emma glanced at him, he was still smiling up at the ceiling, hands on hips. And despite the dark conversation they’d just had, he looked like an entirely different man from the one who’d come to her in the hospital parking lot just weeks ago. He looked light-hearted, happy, comfortable. He very suddenly, very clearly, looked like the man she’d married. Her heart dropped to her feet, then floated back to her throat.
She still loved him. No matter how hard she attempted to rationalize it away, there was no denying, not only did she still love him, she would always love him. And she had no idea where that left her. Especially when she hated the way he’d run himself into the ground as a punishment for his past mistakes. Hated the idea of him interviewing men like Assad and putting his life at risk for stories just so he could keep his job.
“Miranda says she doesn’t trust me to do it right,” he said, “but I think she just wants to get her hands dirty.” When he looked at Emma, his smile fell. “Oh shit. You hate it.” He looked at the ceiling again, this time frowning. “I thought it would add to the value of the house, but if you want the attic, I’ll just frame it up again—”
“No.” She shook herself out of the heartbreakingly warm sight of the husband she’d lost so long ago. “No, I don’t hate it. And you’re right, it will definitely add value. Keep it.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. It’s actually really incredible.”
“Then why do you look sad?”