Page 61 of True Colors

Christ! Did I just stutter on the word stutter? Earth, swallow me whole now!

He chuckles. “No, Anouk, because you’re interesting. You are amazing with numbers. Just stunning. Then you”—he pauses and then shrugs as if making a decision—“dress like you’re in Paris.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

“You do.” He flicks a hand over my black and white scarf.

I look down at my black capri pants and striped, white-and-black blouse. I’m wearing my favorite flats, the ones that have a bow on them and can go into the washing machine, come out like new. They’re my San Francisco warm-day shoes.

“I…I…g-guess.”

“You always wear a scarf.”

His fingers brush the edge of it, and my pulse jumps so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t echo in the room.

“I….”

Words evaporate. My throat tightens. The truth is simple, but not easy.

“I have a scar.” My fingers drift unconsciously to where the history of my childhood is carved upon my skin. “On my neck.”

His expression shifts. He’s curious, yes, but also a little something else.

I hate it when people pity me.

“How did you get it?”

I force a breath. “It’s old. From…when I was a kid. It’s just one of those things.”

Understatement of the century. But I won’t go into the details. Not now. Maybe not ever.

The night my mother murdered my father, he tried to help me just as I tried to help him, and we both got hurt. He lost his life and I parts of my soul.

I keep my gaze steady. I don’t want him to think I’m fragile porcelain. “It’s nothing. I just…people ask, and I don’t want to talk about it.” This comes out stronger. I’m telling him I don’t want to discuss this. “And I like scarves. I mean, who doesn’t?” I add airily.

Thankfully, our food arrives then. Saved by the protein!

“I have a scar.” He holds out the back of his hand, and sure enough, there’s a burn mark.

“How did you get it?”

He gives me a sheepish look. “I tried to cook for a girl I liked in college, and…I set the oven mitt on fire.”

I am just slightly jealous of that girl he cooked for.

“I’m a damn good cook now, and I don’t burn anything,” he quickly adds.

“What happened to the girl?”

He grins now, cheekily. “Oh, she fell madly in love with”—he winks at me—“my roommate who saved the apartment from burning down. They have a kid now. I’m the Godfather.”

I can’t help it. I smile. This man is the cutest. “That’s a charming story.”

He brightens. “Really?”

I roll my eyes. “No, not really. But I’m sure she thought so.” I consider him for a moment. “But then again, maybe not, since she dumped you for your friend.”

He puts a hand to his heart in mock despair. “You wound me, Anouk.”