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He was an enigma.
One that made my thighs clench every time he turned that glare in my direction, but an enigma nonetheless.
And I would figure him out eventually.
“My mom dropped by when you were out,” he said, not looking up from his laptop. “She’s furious.”
“Let me guess. You didn’t bother telling her you had a fake girlfriend.”
“Yeah.” He ran his hands through his hair, his favorite nervous habit. “I should have thought that through. The minute we walked into the diner yesterday, her phone was blowing up.”
“Did you tell her the truth?”
“No. She can’t know.” He scrutinized me for a moment, as if waiting for me to argue. “It’s complicated, but it’s best if we keep her in the dark until we have more concrete answers.”
I wanted to question it. She could have critical information about her husband’s last days that her kids weren’t privy to. But the sadness that lingered behind his cocky attitude reminded me to keep my mouth shut. Those pieces of the puzzle would come together eventually.
“She brought that for you,” he said, pointing to a platter on the island.
“This looks delicious,” I said, already rummaging for a knife to cut myself a piece of the golden banana bread.
“Yeah, it’s her specialty. She’s perfected it over the years. It’s really good.”
I nodded, shoving a chunk into my mouth. The second the flavor registered on my tongue, a moan slipped from between my lips.
I wasn’t often treated to homemade baked goods, and this in particular immediately made me think of my own mother. She had always loved to bake for me and my friends. She’d whip up oatmeal raisin cookies and brownies like it was nothing so that when I had friends over, we’d have a special treat.
I made a mental note to call her later. We hadn’t spoken in a while, and I missed her.
“Oh. My God. This is amazing. Do you want some?” I asked, eyes wide. How rude of me to dig in like that without offering him a piece.
He shook his head. “Nah, she made that special loaf over there for me.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to rub the deliciousness in your face. What are you allergic to? Gluten? Dairy?”
He ran a yellow highlighter over a line on the paper before him, then focused on me.
“No. I don’t like chocolate chips, so she leaves them out of mine.”
I froze with a chunk halfway to my mouth. “Hold up. You don’t like chocolate chips in your banana bread?”
“No. I hate chocolate.”
I brushed my hands together to get rid of the crumbs. “That’s it. I’m searching the basement. You are clearly some kind of deviant.”
He gave me one of those exasperated hot-guy looks. “It’s not a big deal.”
I gripped the countertop with one hand and fanned myself with the other, pretending I was on the verge of fainting. “You can’t be serious. This fake relationship will not work. We’re going to have to break up. Have you been tested?”
“For what?” He was working hard to look annoyed, but the corner of his mouth quirked for a fraction of a second. There had to be some silliness beneath the serious facade, and I wanted to see how far I could push him.
“For insanity!” I exclaimed, shoving another piece into my mouth.
“It’s not that weird. Lots of people don’t like chocolate.”
“Not normal ones.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. I suck. I’m a shitty son and a shitty brother and a nutcase who doesn’t like chocolate.”
