“What?” She tilts her head to the side.
“I don’t want to give you any more reason to plot my death.”
“That obvious?”
Chuckling, I pause the fork on its way to my mouth. “You don’t have a resting bitch face, you have a resting murder Raffi face.”
She laughs again, and it melts the icicles that speared my chest. “In my defense.” She pauses to take another bite of pie and leaves a trail of crumbs along her bottom lip.
Reaching out, I capture the crumbs with my thumb before they fall to the table.
She gasps, her body popping back as she stares at my outstretched hand.
“What?” I lick the buttery pastry debris from my thumb.
Her jaw trembles again. Fuck. What did I do? Did she really want those crumbs? I mean, the pastry is delicious, but it wasn’t that big a piece. She can have mine if it’ll make her better.
There’s a familiarity with her that makes me uneasy. I don’t like how my body instinctively wants to protect this woman I can’t remember, yet at the same time, I want to get to know her.
There’s a reason she’s the mother of my child, and I’m not superficial enough for it to simply be because she’s a beautiful woman.
And she fucking well is.
She touches her fingers to her lip where I brushed off the crumbs. Have I done that before? Is that why she’s so upset by the movement?
“Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”
Good choice. One of my top five sandwich fillings.
“You really don’t remember?”
Dredging the corners of my mind, I come up empty. Nothing. Nada. “I’m sorry.” It’s the only thing I can think of to say.
She takes another bite of her pie before she launches into our story. She tells me about the jail and bail, how I shared my sandwiches with her, and convinced her to let me take her on a date.
“Wait. Why didn’t you want to date me? I’m a catch.” Puffing out my chest makes her laugh again, but it’s the eye roll that sets my soul alive. That eye roll was freakin’ impressive.
“Iama catch. I mean, so my mom says.”
She snorts. “My mom does not.” She winces. “But she also doesn’t know…everything.” She shakes her head. “Are you okay now? The article I looked at said you got hit pretty badly.”
“Hazard of the job.” I point at her. “We’re not skipping the point where you didn’t want to date me. Don’t you think I’m pretty?” I clutch my chest with a gasp.
She searches the table, probably for something to throw at my face. “I’d just broken up with an asshole ex who did a number on me. I didn’t want to date anyone. Especially hockey playing someones who didn’t tell me they play hockey.”
My stomach falls. “Why wouldn’t I have told you I play hockey?”
Her face turns red again. “I was pretty vocal about my loathing of hockey players.”
“So you never knew I played hockey. But you knew my name was Raffi, and I went to school here?” I can’t figure out how she couldn’t have tracked me down. There can’t be all that many Raffis here on campus.
She shakes her head, toying with a piece of pastry crust. “We gave each other fake names.”
It’s a fucking Greek tragedy. I’d say it’s Shakespearean, but so far, no one’s died.
Please God tell me no one dies.
“Because of course we did.”
