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“A carnival.” The way he repeated the words was as if he thought them ridiculous.
“You know. Rides. Cotton candy. Really bad food. Live animals even.” I couldn’t even bear to see his reaction. I was being ridiculous, which pained me terribly. “I know. Stupid, right?”
“Why stupid, Georgia?”
Even the way he was saying my name was different, more structured. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. “Because you’re not the kind of man to ever do something so frivolous or fun. Are you?”
“Maybe not.”
“Have you ever eaten cotton candy?” When he stared at me with those soulful eyes of his, I allowed a short laugh. “It tastes a little like bubblegum but melts in your mouth almost like air.”
For the first time, he smiled in a way that wasn’t seductive or slightly evil, just a happy smile that could light up a room. “Sounds disgusting.”
“It is, which is what makes it so amazing.”
He burst into laughter. “I’ve never been to a carnival, Georgia. Of that I’m certain.”
“Favorite color?” I prodded.
“Blue. That was easy.”
“Favorite food?”
“A bloody steak with garlic mashed potatoes on the side.”
I bit my lower lip. “Sounds yummy. What about family? You’re good with kids.”
“I think I have a nephew. Yes, I’m certain of it.”
“Now, we’re getting somewhere. Um… We know your favorite drink. How about where do you live?”
He opened his mouth to respond then shook his head. “It was almost right there.”
“It has to be close. Maybe Washington DC, although you don’t look like the buttoned-up type.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning I don’t think there’s a conservative bone in your body,” I told him, trying not to become amused.
He had another faraway look in his eyes, his jaw clenching. “I don’t know, Georgia. That suit was pretty constricting.”
“Because it was waterlogged.” We were both brought back to the issue at hand.
“Tell me about Misty Blake.”
I stared at him incredulously. “Just a name.”
The way he smiled again was almost boyish. “I like Georgia better.”
While I wanted to be angry with him, he didn’t know me any more than I did him. “Well, how about, what do you like to read?”
“You don’t need to try so hard.”
“I just want to help, Sabatino. I can’t imagine what it’s like not to remember who you are.” And he had no understanding of how horrible it was to remember yet be unable to be that person.
“And I adore you for that.”
Memories were like double-edged swords, painful as they’re being made and even worse as they’re remembered. There were so many reasons I’d shut down the heinous memories, or at least most of them. I didn’t want the bastard to win even from a distance. I didn’t need a therapist to tell me that if I wanted to thrive, they had to be placed in a padlocked box, shoved into the darkest, most inaccessible place in my mind.
