didn’t.
He stood up and damn it all, she wasn’t strong enough to hold on to him. “Um, yeah. Don’t want to overdo it on your first night home.”
She frowned at him. “You won’t break me, you know.”
“I know, I know. Hey, are you hungry? I could order some food. I drove past the Tower Pizza—it’s still standing. I’ll get you a green pepper and mushroom.”
“Oh. Okay.” Something still felt...off. She groped around in her mind, trying to get the fog that had covered everything to shift or just go the heck away, but it didn’t. “But you don’t like mushrooms. You don’t have to eat them just for my sake.”
He paused halfway to the kitchen. “I’ll get two pizzas. I know you don’t like pepperoni. Then we can have some for lunch tomorrow. Sound good?”
She snickered at him. “Two pizzas? That must have been some bonus.”
A shadow crossed over his face. But he said, “It was. I’ll be right back. Then we’ll see about getting you into the shower.”
Skye liked the sound of that. She looked down at her loose-fitting yoga pants and unisex T-shirt emblazoned with the hospital’s logo on it. This was not a good look—in fact, she probably resembled an escaped mental patient more than anything else.
She just wanted to put this whole brain-injury thing behind them and get back to their lives. And Grace—she needed to get Grace, although the concept of a small human that was her daughter wasn’t something she had a firm grasp on just yet. Grace Holt was still...an abstract idea.
They’d get to Grace. Lark had the baby so Skye felt okay just focusing on Jake right now.
It really did feel like longer than a few months since she’d been with him. But her dreams had been wild and varied and had always had a glimmer of something that might have been a memory at the core of them—like parking at that spot and making out.
That settled it. Shower first, real clothing second, seducing Jake third.
She was going to remember this.
* * *
Jake stood in the kitchen, forcing himself to breathe evenly.
Jesus, she was going to kill him. He was halfway amazed he wasn’t already dead yet.
What the hell was going on? That doctor hadn’t been lying when he’d said that Skye had lost the past two years. It was as if the whole seven hundred and thirty days hadn’t happened. The Skye that was sitting out there on that couch was the Skye he’d run away with—bold and forward and unable to keep her hands off of him. She was the Skye he’d been unable to stay away from, come hell or high water.
Gone was the quiet, distant woman who didn’t care how much he hated this town, didn’t want to share a pizza with him—didn’t want him. The Skye on the couch had no clue that other Skye had taken over the past two years of her life.
She didn’t remember falling out of love with him.
She still thought she loved him.
And she seemed hell-bound to prove it.
What was he supposed to do here? The jerk move would be to just start sleeping with her. But the doctor seemed to think she’d start to recover some of her memories and once she did—once she remembered the divorce papers he’d shoved into his glove box—she’d accuse him of taking advantage of her while she was confused.
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