A kiss lands on my cheek as the hand is pulled away from in front of my eyes.

Alastair unwraps himself from around my shoulders and flops onto a kitchen stool next to me. He's dressed even more scantily than Lyall, in a thin white robe like people wear at health spas.

I wonder if he's wearing anything underneath.

OMG don't think about that! It's as if I'm a dirty old man perving on schoolgirls. Breathe. He just kissed me on my cheek. Ignore that. Didn't happen. Breathe.

I sneak a glance at his beautifully defined chest peeking out from the robe and my face reacts by turning a fierce, burning red.

Everything about him just looks amazing. Especially his hair. Messy dark blonde, slightly damp – probably from the shower.

My cheek is warm and tingling where he kissed the skin.

Get a grip Ashling. Don't freak out over one kiss on the cheek.

"What de hell is wrong with ye Al?" asks Lyall, frowning at Alastaire as he stirs our tea. "Ye can't just barge in here an' slobber all over our guest like that. It's rude."

"Hardly, Lyall," Alastair says. "It's called being a gentleman. Something the likes of you wouldn't know anything about. And yes, a cup of tea would be marvelous, thank you."

Lyall ignores him and leans over the counter, staring at me sternly. "Trust me Ashlin', yer shouldn't let those lips of his get anywhere near yer face again. Yer don't know where that mouth's been."

"Less gutter talk in front of the lady, please," Alastaire says. "And my tea seems to be taking an awfully long time."

Lyall picks up the milk carton off the kitchen counter, and waves it in front of Alastair's face. "If she wasn't sittin' next ter yer right now, this would be all over yer head".

"Scary. Just as well you're here, then," Alastaire says with a charming smile in my direction. "What do you think of our humble abode in the woods? Well hidden, isn't it?"

"Yes," I answer slowly, terrified I'm going to say something moronic in front of him. "I thought I might be lost at one stage... but Felix's map was really helpful."

"Helpful?" Alastaire says with a roll of his eyes. "Cryptic is more like it. I told to him leave out that ridiculous silver fox and map stuff and to just tell you where we were. But Captain Paranoid thought your friend was listening in on the other side of the door.

Felix was totally right about that. Zee heard every single word we said.

"I don't know why he has to be so bafflingly mystifying the whole time," Alastaire says.

"Cos de birds love it, that's why," Lyall says with a wink as he places a cup of tea before each of us. "More than that stupid angelic devil act yer always doin."

"Oh, shut up, leprechaun," Alastaire replies airily, scooping three lumps of sugar into his tea. He turns to me, idly brushing some stray strands of hair behind my ear. "Lyall's wrong, isn't he Cupcake? Who do you prefer? Me, or mean old Felix?"

I gulp so loud that I'm sure they must have both heard it.

"Well, that's... an interesting question," I mumble. "I like both of you. As a fan, I mean. I mean... of course I don't... I mean, I don't... um... you know. Felix is –"

"Felix is what?"

I snap my head around quickly in the direction of the unexpected voice. Dressed in black skinny jeans and a grey v-neck tee, Felix leans in the doorway arching his eyebrows expectantly.

"Mornin' Fee," Lyall says. "Come on an' get some tea."

Felix saunters over to the kitchen counter, effortless and graceful as a cat. He looks seriously pissed. He pulls out a bar stool on the other side of the counter and slouches down onto it with a stony expression.

He glares at Alastaire with daggers in his eyes.

"You'll have ter excuse our Felix," Lyall says.  "He's not a mornin' person."

"Or an afternoon, or an evening person," Alastaire says.

Felix slumps down lower on the counter in response.

"Where are the others?" He asks.

"Elliot's out doin' laps around de forest," Lyall replies. "An' Ben's probably taggin' along an' drivin' him nuts".

"Well that's rather inconsiderate of them," says Alastaire. "We're all sitting around waiting for them while they go gallivanting through the woods like wild animals."

"It's for de best," says Lyall. He opens up the huge fridge and stacks eggs, milk and butter on the kitchen counter. "We couldn't start anythin' yet anyway. Have yer eaten yet Ashlin'?"

Suddenly all eyes are on me.

Brown eyes, hazel eyes, blue eyes, scrutinizing my too-thin frame.

Zee and the others understand. They get why I had so much trouble eating normally for a while, and why it's still a struggle for me to eat enough sometimes.

On my black days, or when I'm feeling particularly anxious, all I want is to curl up into a ball and make myself as empty as I feel inside. Every bite of food makes me feel nauseous. I feel like I'm feeding a dead person. Pointless. A waste.

It's not anorexia – I don't look in the mirror and think I'm fat – so it's nothing a stay at a clinic or some counseling is going to fix. And it's not as if I don't like food. I love it. Which is what makes it all the more lame.

I like to think of it as the grief diet. A model-skinny figure in exchange for endless panic attacks and crying myself to sleep most nights. Fun.

"I ate earlier," I lie. Besides, I'm scared I'll drop food all over myself while they watch, or get something stuck in my teeth.

"No matter," Lyall says, breaking an egg into a large mixing bowl. "Ye'll find room for me world famous blueberry pancakes."

I start to protest, and Alastaire places his finger over my lips.

"Hush Cupcake," he says while Felix glares at him across the counter. "Breakfast before business."