“I think it’s worth it,” I said. “It’s better than forgetting.”
“Hm.” He went silent again. His dark eyes glinted in the streetlights. “So what are you doing?” he finally spoke up. “So you don’t forget?”
I tipped my head back and stared at the crescent moon.
“Baking,” I said.
I saw him look at me skeptically out of the corner of my eye. “Baking?”
“My sister and I used to bake together when we were younger. Well,” I amended, “she would bake and I would watch and make a mess. I wasn’t all that good. She was a greater baker, though. I thought she could have opened her own bakery someday when she grew up. But then—”
My chest pulsed with a throbbing ache. The strange guy waited while I gathered myself. I inhaled slowly.
“So I signed up for a baking class so I can learn to bake the same things we made together.” I turned to him with a wavering smile. “It’s with an expert French pastry chef and everything, too.”
The guy looked horrified.
“Isn’t that just like pouring salt on a wound?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Salt can be purifying.”
“Sure, if you’re trying to cast out a demon,” he replied.
“Like I said, I’ll take the good with the bad.” I hugged my arms around myself, keeping warm in the cool night air. “I want to remember her. I want to remember all the good times we had together.”
“Makes sense, I guess,” he murmured.
“And there’s also that warm fuzzy feeling you get when you make or eat home-cooked food,” I continued. “When you eat something that you know was made with love, or when you cook something for your family.”
“Sure. Family. Right.” He glanced down at the gravelly pavement and kicked at a small rock. He looked back up at me with a smirk. “Or maybe you’re just a masochist.”
I scoffed. “If anyone’s into the BDSM thing, it’s you, Mr. Leather Pants and Eyeliner.”
“I’m not wearing eyeliner,” he said.
“Liar,” I laughed. “I can see it from here.”
“Nope,” he said. “My eyelashes are just naturally thick.”
He leaned in close, until his nose was practically touching mine. I inhaled sharply, my heart jumping. He was so close I could smell him. Like leather and sweet oak.
“See?” His warm, fresh breath washed over me. “All natural.”
He was right. There was no eyeliner, just very thick lashes that mimicked a hint of kohl under his eyes.
“Are you going to take it back?” he asked.
My eyes fell to his full lips as he spoke. His voice was deep and low in his chest.
“You called me a liar, love,” he reminded me. “You going to take it back?”
My tongue was too dry to speak.
He smirked in my face then straightened up. I felt like I could breathe again. He ran a hand through his tousled hair.
“Women are always so jealous of my eyelashes,” he said without a hint of shame. “It’s one of the things that gets them so hot for me. That and my incredible good looks,” he added.
My tongue unglued itself from the roof of my mouth.
