“Not yet.” She shifted, the fire in her hair sparking and spreading. “Now, what do you really want to ask?”
I shoveled the last of my mashed potatoes into my mouth and gave her kitten eyes.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” I pointed at her untouched food, then at her hands, braced like she was ready for a fight. “Anything you want to talk about?”
She relaxed her ready-for-battle stance, uncoiling by measures as if just noticing how rigidly she’d been holding herself.
Barely breathing.
Not quite human.
She picked up her fork and pushed at the cantaloupe, peaches, honeydew, and grapes. “You’ve been distracted,” she said. “Mumbling to yourself.”
“I don’t mumble.”
“All right.” She looked up, mischief in her gaze. “Talking to yourself in a low, barely understandable manner.”
I made an offended sound, which earned me a small smile.
“You’re keeping something from me.” She stabbed a grape and pulled it off the tines with her teeth.It gave a muffled snap as she chewed.
“Can’t imagine that’s true.” I leaned back and surveyed the diner. It was an old building, wooden tables and chairs, vinyl booths. The walls were littered with farm memorabilia and decorations that involved a lot of cows.
A man with dark spiky hair and rosy-brown skin wandered slowly between the empty tables. None of the other people in the place were paying us any mind, but he kept throwing looks our way.
“I know you,” she said.
“Oh?” I asked, thinking I might have found a way to get her to tell me something she wanted for her birthday. “What’s my favorite pie?”
Lu’s gaze flicked up, her eyes honey-gold, a sunset over soft sand. She was fire and light and hope. Being the focus of her attention made me feel like I’d just found my way home after a hundred years’ wandering.
I loved her. Would fall for her again and again, until time ticked into silence.
“Pie.” The arch of her eyebrow was a hook of curiosity. “You want me to tell you your favorite pie?”
“How about I just tell you? I like several pies.”
“I know you like pie, Brogan. I used to make them for you. A lot of them.”
The man cleaning tables made his way closer.
“Pecan,” I said, catching at the old memory. “Apple, with cinnamon and clove. You had a way with crust...”
“There’s pie on the menu.” All her attention was on me now, wondering why I was shaking out old memories like linen on the line.
“Won’t be as good as yours. Never as good.”
“I baked for you back at Ricky’s in Missouri.”
This wasn’t getting me any closer to finding her favorite dessert.
“You baked cake in Missouri,” I said. “You liked that, right?”
She blinked, amused. “Are you telling me you actually want to visit Ricky? Ricky Vargas? The woman you’ve only just begrudgingly befriended because she saved our lives? That Ricky?”
“Let’s say I did want to see her. Not,” I added, “that I want to turn around and drive four hundred miles back to Hornet.”
“It’s only three hundred and fifty miles, Brogan.”
