Buffy's hand trembled as she pulled it from the stranger's, a slight
chill slithering up her spine. She pulled her raincoat around her, trying
to place his face in the fog of grief engulfing her, yet she had never met
him before. Or had she?
And why was he looking at her so intently?
"I'm sorry about your husband," he said in a low voice.
His accent startled her. He really didn't look like the type that would have an accent. It reminded her of Angel's.
"I'm afraid I didn't know him very well—I'd just been hired to work at the center," he continued.
He was nervous she realized, remembering that Angel had had an aversion to funerals as well. Maybe it was a man thing. Not that she enjoyed going to them herself, but sometimes people didn't have a choice. In fact, she'd already been to enough funerals to last a lifetime.
At ten she had lost her dad. At seventeen, she'd buried her mom.
And now Angel.
She shook her head, operating on autopilot. "Thank you for coming, Mr....."
"Courtland. Spike Courtland." A frown pinched his dark eyebrows as he shifted. "Anyway, I just wanted to offer my regrets."
Buffy nodded, clasping her hands together as his bright blue eyes bore into hers. "I suppose I'll see you at the center."
"I suppose."
He lifted his hand to wipe away the raindrops sliding down the pale skin of his cheek. A long purple scar curved his hand and another smaller, whiter X-shaped one slashed through his left eyebrow. She wondered what had happened to him, but forced herself not to ask.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, we'll be working together." His voice lowered, sympathy making it huskier and his Cockney accent sharper. "That is, when you feel like returning to work."
Buffy nodded. She hadn't thought that far ahead. Then, again, work would probably fill the endless, empty days ahead. Help take her mind off of her grief. "You're in psychiatry?"
His blue eyes looked somber. "Yes."
For the first time, Buffy realized that he was handsome. Not in the tall, dark way Angel had been, but in a more primal way. He was very lean and slightly muscular. His cheekbones were razor sharp against his pale skin and his aquiline nose sat between two deep blue eyes that seemed to change color at every turn.
Guilt suffused her—how could she notice a man's looks when Angel had just been put in the ground? What kind of wife was she? Had she been?
One who had disappointed her husband...
Spike Courtland, (What kind of name was Spike anyway?) shifted again, wincing as if his leg hurt. He was leaning on a dark wooden cane. So, he had been hurt recently. The reason for the scars, perhaps the reason he was so lean...
"I was actually coming to work with Angel."
Buffy's throat closed. A dozen other questions tumbled through her head, but the realization that she would see this man again, and probably on a daily basis, shook her to the core.
The trouble was, she had no idea why the idea upset her so. She only knew that she didn't want to be around him. And that eerie feeling she'd had when they'd first met had just magnified tenfold.
TBC.
And why was he looking at her so intently?
"I'm sorry about your husband," he said in a low voice.
His accent startled her. He really didn't look like the type that would have an accent. It reminded her of Angel's.
"I'm afraid I didn't know him very well—I'd just been hired to work at the center," he continued.
He was nervous she realized, remembering that Angel had had an aversion to funerals as well. Maybe it was a man thing. Not that she enjoyed going to them herself, but sometimes people didn't have a choice. In fact, she'd already been to enough funerals to last a lifetime.
At ten she had lost her dad. At seventeen, she'd buried her mom.
And now Angel.
She shook her head, operating on autopilot. "Thank you for coming, Mr....."
"Courtland. Spike Courtland." A frown pinched his dark eyebrows as he shifted. "Anyway, I just wanted to offer my regrets."
Buffy nodded, clasping her hands together as his bright blue eyes bore into hers. "I suppose I'll see you at the center."
"I suppose."
He lifted his hand to wipe away the raindrops sliding down the pale skin of his cheek. A long purple scar curved his hand and another smaller, whiter X-shaped one slashed through his left eyebrow. She wondered what had happened to him, but forced herself not to ask.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, we'll be working together." His voice lowered, sympathy making it huskier and his Cockney accent sharper. "That is, when you feel like returning to work."
Buffy nodded. She hadn't thought that far ahead. Then, again, work would probably fill the endless, empty days ahead. Help take her mind off of her grief. "You're in psychiatry?"
His blue eyes looked somber. "Yes."
For the first time, Buffy realized that he was handsome. Not in the tall, dark way Angel had been, but in a more primal way. He was very lean and slightly muscular. His cheekbones were razor sharp against his pale skin and his aquiline nose sat between two deep blue eyes that seemed to change color at every turn.
Guilt suffused her—how could she notice a man's looks when Angel had just been put in the ground? What kind of wife was she? Had she been?
One who had disappointed her husband...
Spike Courtland, (What kind of name was Spike anyway?) shifted again, wincing as if his leg hurt. He was leaning on a dark wooden cane. So, he had been hurt recently. The reason for the scars, perhaps the reason he was so lean...
"I was actually coming to work with Angel."
Buffy's throat closed. A dozen other questions tumbled through her head, but the realization that she would see this man again, and probably on a daily basis, shook her to the core.
The trouble was, she had no idea why the idea upset her so. She only knew that she didn't want to be around him. And that eerie feeling she'd had when they'd first met had just magnified tenfold.
TBC.