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“Oooohhh. That might be my favorite!” She took a sip of water as I unwrapped the third slice of cake.

“Last, we have a delicious strawberry cake with cream cheese frosting.” I repeated the process, and she clapped her hands animatedly. Her eyes danced with delight as she savored the flavor.

“THIS! This is my favorite, favorite!” I chuckled at her enthusiasm.

“Mine too.” Why did the two words feel so intimate? So right. Why did the territorial caveman part of me want to say I wanted her to be mine because she was my favorite too? But instead, we shared the cake, and I tried to think of anything else other than being her friend, because that might be the death of me. The first thing that came to mind was something that happened during lunch that I couldn’t forget.

“So . . . if you know who is taking your lunch, why haven’t you talked to them to see what’s going on?” Her dappled blue eyes grew to the size of half dollars. Her hands instinctively reached to rub her thumb on the military tags that were tucked inside her shirt.

“Uhh . . . I’m not the best with confrontation and . . .” She looked away, as if she was embarrassed.

I hooked my index finger under her chin and turned her toward me.

“Tell me.” Her teeth caught her bottom lip.

“I don’t like conflict . . . ” She glanced down at her phone. She had ten minutes before she needed to be back at work.

“What do you do when you disagree with something?”

She glanced at her phone again, avoiding telling me, which told me she always made herself agreeable.

“Um, I think I need to go back to work. I really appreciate you taking me to lunch. You’re right about the cake. It’s fantastic.” She smiled as if I’d forget my question.

“You’re welcome.” I reached my hand toward her, then stopped. “May I hold your hand?”

She nodded, biting her lower lip. I engulfed her small hand in mine to ground her while I talked to her.

“Sawyer, you matter too.” She ducked her head, and I knew that if I weren’t holding her hand, she’d bolt from the truck. Her other hand was still rubbing a pattern on the tags.

“If you disagree with something or dislike something, it’s okay to say that. You weren’t okay with the mix-up on your sandwich at lunch, were you?” During lunch the cafe had mistakenly given her mayo instead of honey mustard. She had replied that it didn’t matter, but I thought I’d caught her grimacing a couple of times while chewing.

She shook her head the smallest amount.

“Can you tell me?” I asked as gently as I could.

Her eyes found mine, and she took a steadying breath.

“I don’t like mayo. It makes me want to puke. Someone made me eat old mayo once, and I’ve had a hard time eating it since. The café didn’t know that and I didn’t want to upset anyone.”

My throat was tight and I burned with anger that anyone that could treat her badly, and with compassion for the beautiful woman at war with wanting to be herself. How anyone could cause pain to this woman was beyond me. She was gentle and kind. I had seen the way she handled Connor, even after the situation had derailed her day and she still had patience. She exhibited genuine kindness in a way that gave the impression that warmth seeped from her skin.

“I’m sorry that happened to you. Can we make a deal?” My thumb skimmed the back of her soft hand.

Her eyes searched mine and then another slight nod.

“If this happens again, will you tell me? I’ll buy you another sandwich.”

She shook her head and tugged at her hand to create distance. I let go, knowing that her controlling her space was more important than my desire to hold her hand.

“We’ll treat it like a game. Every time I see you, I want you to disagree with me about something. You can practice on me.”

Her eyes searched mine again, her forehead furrowed.

“Why?” It was almost a whisper.

“Because you should have a place to be authentically you and I want to be that place.”

“And you won’t get angry at me?” she asked as though she was having a hard time believing it.