I hate him. I hate that he knows what I’m gonna do even before I do. And I hate that seeing him standing there brings me joy and dread all at once. Fuck! It’s one thing for him to catch me trying to sneak out, it’s another for him to be leaning on my car with a cocky, sexy smirk. I’m at a loss for words for several moments. He hands me my choice of beers. I take the light one and stand next to him over by the car.

“How did you know?” I ask as I bring the bottle to my lips.

“Gut feeling.”

“Well, congratulations,” I reply.

“Thank you, what do I win?”

“What do you want?” I ask. I know that’s a bad question, but it’s too late to take it back.

“You know what I want,” he says suggestively.

“Look, I am not—”

“Talk,” he says quickly.

“What?”

“My prize for busting you and for saving your life—and yes, I’m throwing that in too—is that we have a conversation.”

“Fine, about what?”

“Babe, anything. I want to know you. Is that so bad?”

“Not on the surface, no,” I mumble.

“Let me guess, you were involved with some guy and things were awful. Now you hate any and all men. Is that it?” he asks.

“Something like that.”

“Well, you can put your hatred of men aside for a few minutes—don’t worry, it will keep.”

“I don’t hate men.”

He looks at me with disbelief in his eyes.

“I don’t,” I reply.

“Let’s hope not,” he mumbles to himself as he reaches onto the roof of my car and displays his handful of treats. And right away I spot my favorite seasonal candy, Candy Corn.

“I love these damn things,” I reply as I pluck a small packet out from his hand.

“I grabbed that by mistake. No one likes Candy Corn. It’s the fruitcake of the Halloween candy world,” he informs me.

“See, Candy Corn gets a bad rap. All the glamor and glory go to the mini Kit Kat bar. And that’s just not fair,” I protest.

“Have you ever had a Kit Kat? Do you have any idea how good they are?” he demands.

“I’m sorry but your taste in Halloween candy is uninspired, and frankly, a little common,” I inform him as I pop a handful of Candy Corn into my mouth.

“Is that judgment?” Wyatt asks, doing a great job at pretending to be genuinely offended.

“Sorry, man, I’m just calling it like I see it.”

“Just what I would expect from a girl who loves Candy Corn,” he says, shaking his head in dismay.

“It could be worse, I could be a ‘Raisinet’ person,” I add.

“Or even more freighting, a ‘peanut chew’ lover,” he says.

“Argh! I hate those things,” I reply as we share a laugh. “When we were kids, my mom would make Bree and I hand out Halloween candy. But things were tight at home, we couldn’t afford the good stuff. So she made us give out generic candy. And trust me, it’s better not to give anything at all.”

“Oh no! Were you one of those houses that gave out candy buttons and lemon heads?”

“I’m truly sorry for anyone whose childhood my family may have ruined,” I reply with my hand on my heart.

“It’s okay, babe. My family was worse,” he assures me.

“What could be worse than generic candy?” I challenge.

“Fruit.”

“No!”

“Yup. Every year,” he says.

“Oh come here, you poor boy,” I tease as I sympathetically stroke his hair. It started out as a silly joke between us but by the third time I run my fingers through his hair, my heart is racing. The airy, lighthearted mood gives way to a new air: one of yearning. I stroke his hair one last time and promise myself I will stop, and I do. But my fingers lingered far too long and now I want to touch more of him.

He’s my abyss: my dark, sexy abyss. I’m standing on the edge looking down into a sweet void that could lead me to new worlds of pleasure and possibilities. I want to fall in. But this abyss could also take me to darker worlds, worlds I’ve been to before. The worlds fill every inch of you with sadness, regret, and self-doubt. Like the world Danny threw me into when I kissed him. When I dared to love him.

I’m fighting myself in a way I have never done before. All I want is to run to and run away from Wyatt, all at the same time. Which side is going to win? Desire will win out. I know this for a fact. I want to feel his lips against mine. I want the sweet nectar regardless of how poisonous the fruit. But that doesn’t stop fear of impending doom from ripping me apart. I can’t kiss him but I need to kiss him. My internal voices rage against each other.

Please give in, Winnie.

Please back away, Winnie.

He leans in slowly and places his hands on my waist, causing an erotic sensation between my legs that guarantees I’m going to give in. And yet, once again, I am truly, truly terrified.

His kiss will give me life again.

His kiss will be the start of the end.

He leans in, even closer; our lips are about to touch. But at the last moment, he reaches past my lips and goes to whisper in my ear.

“It’s okay, baby, we have all the time in the world...”

***

My cock is not okay with the decision that I made not to kiss her. In fact, no part of my body is okay with it except the part that I try to listen to the most—my heart. Christ, I wanted to taste her succulent lips and part them with my tongue. Even if we didn’t make it to bed, standing there holding her in my arms and drinking from her lips would have been more than enough to send me into orbit.

But it’s clear she wasn’t ready. I could see the turbulence in her eyes and although a very large part of her wanted the kiss to happen, some part of her was hesitating. And I don’t want our first kiss to be laced with any doubts or hesitations. Also, I couldn’t stand the thought that after we kissed she’d regret it. Or worse, she’d run away. So after I whisper in her ear, I reach over and kiss her temple.

My baby needs time, and I’m gonna give it to her. Just hope I can handle the wait…

Although I don’t get to kiss her, I get something equally good—I get to spend more time with her. I thought after the kiss didn’t happen she’d get shy and retreat, but that didn’t happen. In fact it was just the opposite. She asked if I was hungry for some real food. I said yes. So she suggests we go eat at one of her favorite deli places—Katz Deli. It’s a famous New York deli located on the Lower East side. Katz has been around since the 1800s. They are known for their towering roast beef and pastrami sandwiches. They weight over a pound and are easily as big as a human head.

We get there, and order. Soon, we are seated before the skyscraper of meat and toppings. We look at each other and laugh because we both know that this is not the way adults are supposed to eat. We have loaded up on beer, candy, and now towers of fatty meats. I tell her that we are officially frat boys.

“I have never seen a woman able to take on the pastrami they serve here,” I challenge.

“Well get ready, Mr. Hunter, it’s about to happen,” she says gleefully. Okay, I really thought she was kidding, but to her credit, she inhaled nearly all of her sandwich. I had to rush through my corn beef to keep up with her. When we are done, we down some iced tea, then split a slice of cheesecake. And by the time we get to the coffee, we are beyond stuffed. We talk about Man Vs. Food, a TV show about a guy who travels the world eating crazy large portions of food. It turns out she loves that show, just like I do.

When the waiter puts the check on the table, I reach out to get it. She places her hand on top of mine to stop me.

“No, it’s on me,” she says.

“Yeah, not gonna happen,” I promise her.

“What? Why? I was the one who invited you.”

“You’re not paying for anything when you’re with me,” I inform her as I take out my card and sign the check.

“Wow, I’ve never been flattered and insulted at the same time.”

“I have to pay.”

“Why, because I’m the woman?”

“You can turn it any way you like. I’m paying—every time.”

“You are such an adorable sexist.”

“I heard the words ‘adorable’ and ‘sex’, all good things in my book.”

She laughs despite herself and thanks me for the meal. Once we start talking about yet another crazy food show, I remark that my sister was a huge fan of cooking shows.

“Her favorite was the one where the guy will eat anything,” I recall.

“Oh, yeah! That one is great but it freaks me out sometimes. I didn’t know you had siblings. How many?”

“Five boys, including me. One girl. I’m the youngest. All of us are single except for my oldest brother.”

“And where does your sister fit in?”

“She was the youngest. Her name is Rose…or was. She died a few years back—leukemia.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Argh! Sorry I brought it up.”

“Hey, it’s alright. You couldn’t have known.”

“Okay. But I’m going to stick to asking you about TV shows,” she vows.

“It’s alright. You can ask me about Rose,” I reply.

“Really? Okay, well, what was she like?”

“She loved horses, chocolate, and had an extensive Justin Bieber playlist she thought we didn’t know about. The only thing she loved better than the above was food and travel.”

“How long ago did she…”

“Three years ago. In the beginning, when she first got sick, we got her this huge cookbook called The World on a Plate because she was obsessed with food and travel. In fact, she wanted to be a superstar chef. She’d make us—by that I mean me—attempt one dish from each country in the book. We thought she’d get better by the time we hit the pastries of Zimbabwe. But she died somewhere around the stews of Jamaica. There was a small fire in the house, and the cookbook was destroyed. It’s out of print now, so…”

“Again, I’m very sorry.”

“I know. Thank you. It was hardest on my mom, you know? For a long time we thought she might not make it back to us. She went to this dark place and nothing we did could get her back.”

“Is she doing any better now?” Winter asks as she places her hand on top of mine. I’m taken aback by just how good it feels to have her hand in mine.

“Yeah, thanks to my dad. He was able to help her find her way back.”

“How long have your parents been married?”

“Forty years.”

“Wow, that’s a really long time.”

“Yeah, what about your parents?” I ask.

“They got a divorce about a year after adopting me. They were married for about twelve before that.

“It goes to show couples don’t last,” she says sadly.

I intertwine my fingers with hers and gaze into her bright eyes. “Winnie, it’s true some couples don’t last but some do…”