Throwing me a look twisted with levity, he couldn’t hide the hint of self-pity.

He’s been so lonely.

Redirecting the conversation to lighter things, I joked, “I assumed you couldn’t even boil water.”

“Why?” He chuckled. “Because you still see the boy who burned everything his mother tried to teach?”

My mind filled with images of Diane Killian laughing hilariously as smoke spewed from her oven for the thirtieth time. Arthur was never destined to follow her and become a baker. Not with his track record.

Kicking my legs, banging my naked heels against the glossy cabinets, I smiled. “No, I assumed because of all the fancy delivered meals. Those weekly menus are fabulous but not exactly conducive to getting someone in the kitchen.”

Grabbing a strainer, he plopped steaming hot water and rice noodles into it, letting the water sift into the sink. “I’m hurt that you have such little faith in me.” He spun around to splat the noodles into a wok filled with soy sauce and other spices, but he stumbled and grabbed the counter instead.

Immediately, my heart skyrocketed. “You okay?” I gripped the marble edge, ready to hurl myself across the space and grab him.

A second ticked past before he moved—slower this time. “I’m fine. Stop fussing. You’ll drive me crazy.” With measured strokes, he turned on the gas and tossed the now glistening and fragrant rice noodles, before folding shallots and bean sprouts into the mess.

Biting my lip, I didn’t say a word as he kept his back toward me and cooked. I didn’t know if his reluctance to face me was due to his concussion or just concentration on his culinary masterpiece.

Either way, I didn’t take my eyes off him the entire time he cooked.

Finally, with the scent of exotic dinner making my mouth water, Arthur divided up the portions and presented a perfect Pad Thai.

My mouth popped open. “Wow, Art. It looks scrumptious.”

“Oh, wait.” He headed to the pantry, grabbed a packet of crushed peanuts, and scattered a pinch over the steamy noodles. “Now it’s ready.”

Lifting his bowl to my nose, he said, “Sniff. Does it smell authentic?”

I inhaled deeply, instantly recognizing the spicy allurement of chilies and the mouthwatering aroma of garlic. “Yes. It smells exactly like a Pad Thai from my local takeout.”

Arthur scowled. “Takeout? Really. You never got to travel with your foster family?”

“No.” I looked away. “They tried to take me to Corfu once, but I refused.”

“Why?”

I shivered as the old lostness and fear of my mind-black-hole came back. “Because I was afraid of going somewhere where I might’ve been before. Afraid of running into people who …” My eyes trailed to my scars. They were answer enough.

Arthur sighed. “Even apart we were still living with the same trials. Both alone—just in different ways.”

We slipped into silence as I accepted a pair of chopsticks, then scooted off the countertop to sit at the breakfast bar. Sliding onto high stools, we sat haloed in light from three glass-domed Edison bulbs.

Arthur waited until I’d sat and devoured a few mouthfuls of his incredible dish before saying, “So … tell me. What have you been up to the past few years?”

I was mesmerized by his expert use of chopsticks and the way his throat tensed as he swallowed.

I laughed even as my heart thundered. “We’re truly doing this?”

He frowned. “Doing what?”

“Getting to know each other.”

Putting down his chopsticks, his forehead furrowed. “Not getting to know you, Buttercup. I already know your soul. It’s been mine since I set eyes on you. But I want to know the type of existence you had when I wasn’t there. I want to decide if I should be pissed off with your foster family for keeping your memories hostage, or silently grateful that they gave you a better life than the one you would’ve had if you’d remembered.”

The ache returned full force. I rubbed my chest with the heel of my palm. “Every time you do that I feel terrible.”

“Do what?”

Our banter dissolved, showing black and white beneath the colors of where we’d been living. We loved each other. It was undeniable. But where our souls remembered and adored, our personalities had evolved due to circumstances beyond our power.

We’re strangers.

“Remind me that it was me who left you.” My skin flashed with heat. “I know you don’t mean it, but it hurts to think it was my fault—”

Arthur slammed his hands on the marble. “None of this is your fault, Cleo.”

I hung my head, poking my noodles with no appetite.

How had this happened again? Could we not talk about anything without bringing up the past and ruining our simple fun?

Taking my hand, he rubbed his thumb over my knuckles. His eyes were strained and hollow. “Forget all of that. I want to know about you. Just you.”

“There isn’t really much to tell.” Bravery strengthened my resolve as Arthur smiled encouragingly.

Okay … I guess we’re talking. Truly talking. For the first time in eight years.

Trying to tame my heart from kicking with first date nerves, I sucked in a breath. “I suppose, in a nutshell, I achieved the dreams I set for myself. I graduated and earned my veterinary degree. I—” Cutting myself off, I waved my hand. “You know all this. I feel like I’m repeating myself.” I stabbed the chopsticks in his direction. “What about you? I want to know about you.”