I shudder. What a legacy. I can’t wrap my head
around it.
I scroll through the extensive list. I want something
upbeat. Hmm, Beyoncé—doesn’t sound like Christian’s
taste. Crazy in Love. Oh yes! How apt. I hit the repeat
button and put it on loud.
I sashay back to the kitchen and find a bowl, open the
I sashay back to the kitchen and find a bowl, open the
fridge, and take out the eggs. I crack them open and begin
to whisk, dancing the whole time.
Raiding the fridge once more, I gather potatoes, ham,
and—Yes!—peas from the freezer. All of these will do.
Finding a pan, I place it on the stove, put in a little olive oil,
and go back to whisking.
No empathy, I muse. Is this unique to Christian?
Maybe all men are like this, baffled by women. I just don’t
know. Perhaps it’s not such a revelation.
I wish Kate were home; she would know. She’s been
in Barbados far too long. She should be back at the end of
the week after her additional vacation with Elliot. I wonder
if it’s still lust at first sight for them.
One of the things I love about you.
I stop whisking. He said it. Does that mean there are
other things? I smile for the first time since seeing Mrs.
Robinson—a genuine, heartfelt, face-splitting smile.
Christian slips his arms around me, making me jump.
“Interesting choice of music,” he purrs as he kisses me
below my ear. “Your hair smells good.” He nuzzles my
hair and inhales deeply.
Desire uncurls in my belly. No. I shrug out of his
embrace.
“I’m still mad at you.”
He frowns. “How long are you going to keep this up?”
he asks, dragging a hand through his hair.
I shrug. “At least until I’ve eaten.”
His lips twitch with amusement. Turning, he picks up
the remote control from the counter and switches off the
music.
“Did you put that on your iPod?” I ask.
He shakes his head, his expression somber, and I
know it was her—Ghost Girl.
“Don’t you think she was trying to tell you something
back then?”
“Well, with hindsight, probably,” he says quietly.
QED. No empathy. My subconsc
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