with white cupcakes. Very cute. Is it mine?”
“Yes. You were carrying it the night you...had your accident.”
“Oh.” Dropping it back in the umbrella stand, she sighed. “I think I need to get some more rest.” She gave him a wobbly smile that made his chest feel tight. “I’ll talk to you in the morning, okay?”
Still battling a fierce and persistent need, he nodded. And then, feeling like a fool, he watched her walk away, all the way down the hall until she closed her bedroom door behind her.
Only once she’d vanished from view did the tightness disappear from his chest.
Some things couldn’t be analyzed, he knew, and if he’d been prone to flights of fancy, he’d think MW had been brought into his life for a reason. He’d been in the right place at the right time, and knew his quick call to 911 would have saved her life had she been badly hurt.
Imagination, wishful thinking, was as foreign to him as modern medicine might be to a witch doctor. Eric had never been anything but honest with himself. For whatever reason, he found MW attractive. His desire for her made the space around her seem electrified. Had she been anyone else, in any other situation, he’d have pursued her.
But until she had her memory back, until she knew who she was and the details of her life, he needed to keep himself under control. Somehow.
Frustrated, he considered heading down to the gym and working out, but didn’t want to leave her alone again.
Instead, he unwound by watching television, falling asleep to the ten-o’clock news. At some point near midnight, he roused himself and headed off to his own bed.
Always an early riser, the next morning, for the first time in his life, Eric tried to move around quietly so he didn’t wake his houseguest. Growing up on a ranch, he’d learned to wake before sunrise most mornings, a habit he’d temporarily abandoned in college, then taken back in medical school and residency. Out of necessity, these days he got to the hospital bright and early, sometimes even before the sun was more than a hint of light on the Oklahoma horizon.
When he walked into the kitchen for his first cup of coffee and flicked on the light, he stopped short at the sight of MW sitting hunched over a mug at his countertop bar.
“Hey.” She flashed him a weary smile. “I couldn’t sleep. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
Since she looked brittle enough to crumble, he kept his movements slow. “Nope. This is when I normally get up.”
Now her eyes widened as she glanced from him to the wall clock. “At four-thirty?” She said the time with horror. “Seriously?”
“Yep.” He crossed to the Keurig coffeemaker, put his coffee pod in and pressed the button to brew. While he waited, he turned to study her. “Maybe today you’ll start to remember something.”
Her nod didn’t contain any real enthusiasm, which told him he hadn’t imagined her mood last night. “Why does that upset you?” he asked.
“I have no idea. I simply can’t remember. But for whatever reason, just thinking about it ties my stomach up in knots. That’s why I couldn’t sleep.”
Snagging his coffee, he took the bar stool next to her. “How long have you been sitting here?”
“I don’t know.” The downturn of her mouth fascinated him. He had the strangest urge to see if he could make it curve up in a smile.
Instead, he sipped his coffee. “What would you like to do today while I’m at work?”
She thought for a moment. “Do you have any cookbooks?” she asked.
Surprised, he nodded. “I can probably rustle up one or two. At one point I thought I might teach myself to be a better cook.”
“Did you?”
“No.” He grinned at her, mentally urging her to smile. “I don’t have the aptitude for it.”
Finally, one side of her mouth lifted, then the other. “I guess we can’t all be gifted in the kitchen.”
A hint? Careful not to show his excitement, he focused on his coffee. “Are you a good cook, then?
He looked up in time to catch her slight frown. “I... Maybe. It’s possible. Either way, while you’re at the hospital, I’d like to try.”
“Great.” Pushing to his feet, he dragged his hand through his hair and tried not to notice the way the frilly, brightly colored pajama shorts Greta had bought her showcased her legs. “I’ll find the books and leave them on the counter for you. Right now, I’ve got to get ready for work.”
He hurried out of the room, more flustered than he’d like to admit, even to himself.
* * *
After Eric left for the hospital, MW sat in the kitchen, lost in her own thoughts. The two cookbooks Eric had been able to locate sat in front of her, untouched. She didn’t understand why the idea of finally knowing her own name terrified her, or why a heavy weight of depression settled over her every time she thought about her memory returning. Had something bad happened to her? Or worse, what if she’d committed a horrible act? What kind of person would she turn out to be?
She didn’t know. Eric had said her memory could return at any time, but she shouldn’t try to force it. Since he hadn’t known precisely how long that would be, she had no choice but to try to be patient, even if she felt as if she were about to jump out of her own skin.
Finally, after her second cup of coffee, she reached for the first cookbook. Flipping through the glossy pages, she tried to figure out what she’d like to try making. Of course a lot of that depended on what supplies Eric had on hand.
Why this strong urge to cook, to make something with her own hands, she didn’t know. Maybe some vestige of who she really was. Either way, the idea brought her comfort.
After checking in Eric’s fridge and cupboards, she settled on a simple apple crisp. After all, she didn’t really know if she had any cooking skills.
Peeling, coring, slicing the apples she’d found in a bowl on the kitchen counter, she didn’t try to overthink anything. Her hands seemed to know what they were doing, so she let them. Measuring out the ingredients, she found herself adding a pinch of this and that, some extra cinnamon and a bit of nutmeg. When she finally placed the dessert in the oven to bake, she felt such a happy sense of accomplishment that she wished for music. Since she didn’t have any, she danced around the kitchen anyway.
She’d always loved to dance and sing while she cooked.
Stunned, the certainty of that knowledge made her freeze. An actual memory? What else could it have been?
Desperate, she tried to see if she could recall anything else. Evidently, she tried too hard, because all she came up with was a blank slate.
Meanwhile, the kitchen filled up with the fragrant smell of the apple crisp. It might have been the wrong thing to make in August, but for whatever reason it seemed like comfort food to her.
A quick glance at the clock showed noon had come
