Dead Romantic by Ruth Saberton

looks impressed, which is good news even if he is just a figment of my imagination.
    “Fine,” shrugs Alex, scooping up the cat and caressing its bony head. “Be like that then. But don’t say I didn’t warn you, Cleo. It isn’t just me, remember? You can see us all!”
    “Shut up!” I hiss from out of the corner of my mouth.
    “Cleo, are you sure you’re all right?” Simon asks. His hand, warm and strong, closes around mine. His index finger skims across my palm and I shiver. God, he’s even more beautiful close up. It’s as if someone’s drawn around his irises with an indigo fine liner.
    “You’re dreadfully pale and you’re so cold,” he adds, resting the back of his hand against my brow. “Shall I take you home?”
    “He’s hitting on you!” Alex teases. “Don’t let us get in your way.”
    I turn my back on him. Whatever mad tricks my mind is playing on me, I’m going to rise above it all. I’ll go back to the doctor and I swear to God I won’t throw the next prescription away.
    “I’m fine. I just skipped breakfast before I came to work,” I fib. I don’t think I’ve actually eaten breakfast since about 1998. I don’t have time for breakfast: I’m far too busy.
    Alex snorts with laughter. “Breakfast! That’s a good one! It’ll take more than a McMuffin to cure this!”
    I shoot him a look that ought to be capable of laying him out dead at my feet – if he wasn’t already dead, obviously.
    Simon doesn’t look convinced by my explanation. “I still think you’re back here far too soon. It’s all too much for you. Look, why don’t you pass some of your workload over to me? I really don’t mind helping out until you feel better.”
    Now there’s one thing I never do, and that’s share my research. The very thought fills me with horror. My work is so precious it feels as though he’s asked me to hand over my child.
    “I could take over the bits you’ve been doing on the boy pharaoh – Aamon, wasn’t it – if that would help?” Simon continues, presumably mistaking my surprised silence for acquiescence. Although his tone is light and casual I notice that his index finger is busy squashing cake crumbs flat against the plate.
    “That’s a really kind offer, Simon, but I’m absolutely fine,” I say firmly. There’s no way I’m letting him get his mitts on Aamon. No way. The discovery of Aamon’s secrets was always Mum’s dream and I’m not giving it away to anyone else. Almost as though he knows what I’m thinking, the little Egyptian boy gives me a toothy grin and then turns a cartwheel before chattering away to Henry Wellby, who seems to understand every word and nods thoughtfully.
    Oh Lord. I really should have taken the doctor up on that prescription.
    “Are you sure? It wouldn’t be any trouble for me,” Simon insists, his denim-blue eyes wide and filled with concern. “I know the Aamonic period isn’t especially significant but I really don’t mind if it takes a load off you.”
    I nearly inhale a mouthful of my sweet tea. Not particularly significant? Does he have any idea just what I’ve uncovered here? How much this tells us about the course of history? It’s immense! If it’s true that Aamon was murdered and usurped it throws those who followed him into a whole new light.
    It will change Egyptology forever.
    Stung by his flippant dismissal of years of Carpenter family research, I feel my temper simmer. Step away from my work, buster!
    “You don’t have to thank me,” says Simon gently, mistaking my gobsmacked silence for overwhelmed gratitude. “I’m more than happy to lend a hand. Shall I just copy your files to my hard drive? Or shall I take your laptop?”
    Quite frankly I’d rather drown myself in my sugary tea than let anyone else near my research – however kind, well respected and good-looking they happen to be – let alone copy it. Resisting the urge to tell him to back the hell off, I simply say again that I’m absolutely fine