“Are you hungry?”

I startle at the sound of his voice and quickly close the leather-bound notebook I was making notes in, laying it on the bed next to me. “Not really,” I answer as my stomach growls, blowing my lie.

He shakes his head and smiles. “You’re a terrible liar,” he says, leaning against the doorframe. He’s changed into a pair of black basketball shorts and a tight gray t-shirt. Dressed down, he looks even more muscular, lean, and tall. He must stand at least six foot three. His skin is perfectly tan, the color of caramel, and his lips are full, soft looking.

Why am I looking at his lips?

“When’s the last time you ate?” His eyes travel down to my bony legs, which stick out from underneath my short sundress.

I actually have to think about the last time I ate, and it was two days ago, before I got on that Greyhound bus. Funny thing is, I’m not even hungry. The stress of not knowing where your life is heading must stave off the hunger pains.

“A couple days ago.” I’m almost embarrassed at the admission.

“Days?” His eyes widen in surprise. “Get up.” His normally relaxed voice is rigid, firm. I follow his order and swing my legs over the side of the bed, my feet hitting the cool stone floor as I slide off. I look around for my sandals that I’ve kicked off, but don’t find them.

“You don’t need your shoes. Come on.” I follow him into the gorgeous kitchen. “Here.” He slides a paper menu at me across the kitchen island as I perch on one of the tall barstools. “Do you like Thai food?”

“I’ve never had Thai.”

“What? Really?” He laughs.

“Do you remember where I told you I was from?” I raise an eyebrow. “There isn’t even a McDonald’s within twenty miles of my hometown.”

He smirks at me. I hate nothing more than cocky arrogance in men. I didn’t get that vibe from him before, but right now, he looks disgusted with me. I can only imagine what he thinks of this little hick Illinois girl, dressed in secondhand clothes, not a dime to her name, never having eaten Thai food.

“So, what do you like to eat?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

Anger sets in, and I narrow my eyes at him. “Judging from the looks of this condo, I’m guessing you’ve never been poor, have you, Alex? When you’re poor, you eat whatever you can find. In my case, I was responsible for our meals. Most of the time, it was peanut butter sandwiches or pasta. Not because I couldn’t cook, but because that’s what we could afford. So unless you have peanut butter and jelly, or macaroni and cheese, I’ve probably never had it.” My voice breaks as I finish.

Sadly, I miss peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and macaroni and cheese. Just weeks ago, I wished for a life where I’d never have to eat those two things again. Today, I’d eat it every day for the rest of my life to have my mom back.

He stares at me, and it’s hard not to see the pity in his eyes. I hate pity. My gaze falls to his neck where I watch his Adams apple rise slowly and then fall when he swallows. His lips part as if he’s going to say something, but he refrains.

I inwardly cringe. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like such a bitch…”

“Don’t apologize, Emilia,” he says quietly. “Don’t ever apologize for who you are.” He turns his head, his brown eyes fixated on something in the living room. The silence is uncomfortable, and I hold my breath, waiting for him to say something. “Pizza. We’ll order pizza. Everyone likes pizza, right?” He forces a small smile and the pity is gone, replaced by concern.

“Sure, pizza sounds great. I’ll be in the room. Just let me know when it gets here.” I make a hasty retreat. My feet slap against the tile floor, and I hear him sigh loudly as I disappear back into the safe confines of my room. I grab my notebook and sit on the oversized white chaise lounge. I smile at the remembrance of my mom giving me this notebook. She knew I loved to journal and scribble thoughts in a notebook, and for my birthday last year, she gave me this leather-bound notebook. I knew we couldn’t afford it, but she told me how Mr. Wilson drove her to the dime store in town to help her look for a gift for me, and when she saw this, she knew she had to buy it for me.

Opening the leather cover, I thumb through the pages, but I find myself watching Alex through the open bedroom door where he still stands. He rakes his hands over his face and rubs his temples, clearly frustrated.

Turning back to my notebook, I continue jotting notes and building my plan. My to-do list is short and simple, but critical. First, find a job—something where I can make decent money, and quickly. Second, figure out where I’m going from here. Do I go back to Illinois, to the life I’ve always dreaded, but the only life I’ve known? Or do I go for a fresh start somewhere else? I’ve always wanted to live on the coast…near the ocean, even though I’ve never seen it.

Swallowing hard, I set my pen aside and flip the pages back to the beginning, running my fingers over the stars I sketched. Every time I see stars, I think of my mom. A lump forms in my throat as I think about her, about her life. I asked her one time why she didn’t give me up for adoption. We both could’ve had a better life. Her answer was simple. “You were the brightest star in my darkest moment. Every wish, every dream, every hope I had that vanished was replaced with something better—you.” We had nothing, yet I had everything with her love and support. I truly believe her depression was incurable, and I can only pray now that she’s happier, wherever she is.

I swat at the tears and take a deep breath as I turn to the clear plastic sleeve in my notebook. Inside, it is a picture of my mom and me at my high school graduation. There are only a few memories in my life documented with photographs, but this is my favorite. The look of pure happiness on her face is something I’ll never forget. I smile at the memories of that warm June day, her arm wrapped tightly around my waist, and her head snuggled just under my chin.

I tuck the photo back into the sleeve before I get too emotional, and then I smile at this good memory of her—of us.

A phone ringing pulls me from my thoughts. Through the crack in the open door, I see Alex take his cell and disappear down the hall. I decide to take this opportunity to explore the kitchen I’ve been drooling over since I got here six hours ago. I open the fridge and peek inside. Its sleek glass shelves are lined with everything you’d expect to see in a fridge—soda, bottled water, condiments, and fresh fruits and vegetables. To the right of the refrigerator, I open the door to find a pantry that could double as a bedroom. It’s huge and stocked with dry goods, cereals, pasta, grains, and more. Standing at the oversized kitchen island, I take in the beauty. I’ve never seen a house as beautiful as this one except for in magazines.

For half a second, I envision making dinners and baking in this kitchen before reality sets in and I remember that I’m a visitor in a stranger’s house. I shake my head, expelling my foolish thoughts. Leaning my hip against the granite countertop on the kitchen island, I absorb the enormity and richness of this place. I love that it’s an old building renovated and made modern—old mixed with new.

Feeling eyes on me, I turn to see Alex standing in the hallway on his phone. He’s leaning against the wall, listening to whoever is speaking on the phone, but his focus is on me. Our eyes lock for a brief moment before I hear him mumble a few words and then hang up. For a few seconds, he watches me intently, and then slips back into his office.

What am I doing here? I got into a car with a beautiful stranger and let him take me home. I should be afraid, I should feel fear—but I’m drawn to the danger—attracted to the stranger.

A light knock at the door has me jumping away from the kitchen island. My stomach begins to grumble at the near presence of food. I twist the deadbolt lock and turn the handle, opening the door just as Alex slams it shut, pressing me hard against the large wood door.

His firm stomach rests on my back. “Don’t ever open this door without knowing who it is.” He breathes heavily, the warm air of his breath brushing my ear.

When I register what just happened, I notice my heart racing. “I’m sorry, I thought it was the pizza…”

“It probably is. But, Emilia—you cannot open…” He pauses, lowering his voice to a whisper. “You can’t just open the door.” I lick my lips nervously as words evade me.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur and duck underneath his arm. “I didn’t know.” I glance over my shoulder to see him peering through the peephole. His rigid body relaxes, and then he opens the door and pays for the pizza. I walk quietly back to the kitchen, finding a seat at one of the barstools at the island. My stomach clenches when I hear Alex shut the door. I keep my eyes down and study the swirl of the stone in the granite counter, trying to focus on anything other than my racing heart.

My stomach twists angrily in knots, and I can’t tell if it’s hunger pains or the flash of desire that overcame me when Alex had me pressed against his front door. His rigid muscles pressed against me, the light smell of his cologne, those tempting lips so close to mine. I disregard those thoughts and watch Alex intently. He sets the box on the counter, and immediately, the smell fills the kitchen. My stomach growls loudly, and Alex sets a glass plate down in front of me. “Help yourself,” he says, opening the box.

With a shaky hand, I reach in, pull out a piece of pizza, and set it on my plate.

“Why’re you shaking?” He frowns at me.

I shrug, too nervous to tell him he makes me nervous. Everything about him intimidates me.

“Do I scare you?” he asks me, drawing out the question slowly.

“No.” My answer is soft and not reassuring.

He laughs through his nose and shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry if I did.”

“Maybe you did a little.” I force a small smile. “Just tell me if there are things I shouldn’t do. I feel awkward enough just being here.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” I stare at the slice of pizza, the cheese sliding off the crust onto the glass plate.

“Feel awkward about being here. I invited you. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need.” He seems sincere enough, but every instinct tells me I shouldn’t be here. I should never have accepted his invitation.

“Thank you, I really appreciate that, but I don’t plan to stay for long.” I pick up the large piece of pizza, blowing on it before I take a bite off the end.

“Can I ask you something without you getting upset?” He pushes away from the island and walks toward me. Only a small breakfast bar separates us. I set my pizza down and nod at him.

“Is everything you own in that room with you?”

I swallow hard and nod again; embarrassed, I feel myself blush.

“So, along with what you’re wearing, you have two outfits hanging in the closet, your bag, a book, a notebook, and fifty dollars to your name?”

“Yes.” Shameful, but true.

He stands quietly, his amber eyes holding mine, and his full lips pressed firmly together. I hold my breath, waiting for him to say something—but he never does, so I break the silence.

“Thanks for the pizza.” I push my chair back, the legs squeaking against the tile floor.

He blinks twice before taking a step back. “You’re not done eating. There’s a whole pizza left.”

“I’m not very hungry.”

“Eat, Emilia.” I can tell he’s not taking no for an answer. He looks upset as he looks between the plate and back to me.

Sighing, I pull my chair back up to the counter and take another slice of pizza from the box, setting it next to the half-eaten piece on my plate. He tosses his crust into the trash and starts shuffling through drawers and cabinets, slamming them when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for.

I pick at my pizza, chewing on the crust slowly while watching him curiously. “What’re you looking for?”

“Those metal pans. The long and flat kind. You know, the ones you make cookies on?” He holds his hands out to describe the size of the pan.

I smile and chuckle under my breath. “A cookie sheet?”

He blinks as if understanding is dawning. “Is that what they’re called?”

I nod slowly. “Yeah. Try that tall, skinny cabinet next to your stove.”

He hesitates for a moment, glancing over his shoulder at me before checking there. “I’ll be damned.” With a grin, he pulls out the shiny metal pan. “Did you know this was in there?”

I snort. “How would I know what’s in your kitchen? Lucky guess.”

I don’t tell him that that’s usually where the cookie sheets are. Taking another bite of warm pizza, I chew carefully as he leans against the kitchen island, watching me eat. I see a small smile pull at the corner of his lips when he sees me swallow my pizza as if he’s satisfied with me. With a slight shake of his head, he sets the sheet pan on the island and pulls open the freezer drawer of his fancy refrigerator. It takes a minute, as if he doesn’t know what’s in his own freezer. Finally, he pulls out a cardboard box and sets it next to the pan.

I notice again how the immaculate the kitchen is, nothing on the counters except a complex-looking coffee maker that looks like it belongs in a coffee shop, and a hand towel next to the kitchen sink. Everything in this condo is neat, tidy, and has a place.

He looks up at me as I stand and carry my plate to the sink.

“Just leave the plate in the sink. My housekeeper will take care of it tomorrow.”

Housekeeper? Holding in a begrudging sigh, I set the plate in the large porcelain sink. “You have a housekeeper? For what?”

The muscles in his tan arms tighten as he starts setting frozen dough balls on the pan. “She cleans, shops, and even cooks,” he says, rearranging the little balls so they’re perfectly spaced apart on the cookie sheet. Everything about Alex and his home is perfect, even the spacing of the dough balls on the cookie sheet. There’s nothing out of place here.

Except for me.

“She basically keeps the house in order while I tend to my business.” One ball rolls slightly out of place, and he painstakingly fixes it. “What are you thinking about?” he asks as I stare at his hands.

“Nothing.” I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment. I feel so out of place here, and this is where Alex fits in so well. We’re so different, yet I’m drawn to him.

He gives me a gentle smile. “One of these days, I’m going to get you to talk to me,” he says, sliding the cookie sheet into the oven.

Days? I’m not planning on staying that long. But I don’t say that. Instead, I give him, “You pretty much know everything about me.” I run my fingers through my hair, something I catch myself doing frequently when I’m nervous.

“I seriously doubt that.” He raises an eyebrow at me. Every time he looks at me, my heart races. There’s something about him that I can’t put my finger on, but my body reacts to him. Every look, every glance, I feel like he sees through me. He scares me and excites me all with one look. I’m intrigued and fearful all in the same breath.

I smile at his remark, but I don’t respond, instead pulling away and heading back to the guest room. Slipping inside the cool room, I close the door and pull the long, sheer curtains open. I’m surprised when I realize what I thought were floor-to-ceiling windows is actually a sliding glass door that leads to a large patio. Stepping outside, the hot cement stings my bare feet as I tiptoe over to the plush outdoor furniture and sink into one of the oversized wicker chairs. The plush cushions swallow me, encasing me in warmth as I settle into the chair, thinking how peaceful it is out here.

This patio could double as a garden. There are planters that hold small trees, cacti flowers, and shrubs. A hummingbird flutters around a small feeder hanging from one of the trees, and I fixate on its little wings fluttering from blooming flower to blooming flower. A large stone fireplace sits in the center, outdoor couches surrounding it. I’ve never seen such wealth, such luxury. With that thought, the large French door swings open from the living room and Alex pokes his head out.

“What’re you doing? It’s a hundred and ten out here. Come inside; the dessert is ready.”

“I’m not really a dessert eater, but thank you.” I rest my feet on the edge of the chair and pull my knees tightly to my chest.

“She doesn’t eat dessert,” I hear him mumble to himself. He sighs, and the patio door closes.

Good. I need to think. I close my eyes and lean back in the chair as I soak in the warm afternoon sun.

A couple minutes later, I hear the doors slide open again, and Alex appears, juggling two bowls in his hands. “Here.” He shoves one of the bowls at me with an annoyed tone. I want to ask him if he didn’t hear me earlier when I said I didn’t eat dessert, but instead, I accept the bowl with a gracious smile.

“Warm chocolate chip cookies with ice cream. It’s my favorite,” he says as he sits down in a matching chair across from me. I hold the glass bowl in my hand and watch as the vanilla ice cream starts to melt and pool around the warm cookies. Alex digs in, pulling up a heaping scoop of gooey cookie and ice cream. I find it hard to look away as he wraps his perfect lips around the spoon. The gold flecks in his eyes dance in the setting sun, and I’m mesmerized by how quickly he inhales bite after bite of his dessert.

I swallow hard when he catches me watching him, and I divert my eyes back to the bowl in my lap, which is now nothing more than cookies drowning in ice cream soup. I take a small bite, and then I set the spoon back in the bowl.

He looks at my uneaten dessert. “What’s wrong?” His bowl is now empty and sitting on the iron table between us.

“Nothing. I’m just not really hungry.” I feel bad wasting food, but my stomach twists nervously, and I just don’t think I can eat it. I never ate a lot of sweets growing up, so now when I do, my stomach gets upset.

“Do you not like chocolate chip cookies?”

“I like chocolate chip cookies.” I pause, remembering the times I’d make cookies with my mom. “They were more of a luxury at my house, though. My mom and I would make them on special occasions when we had the money to splurge. We didn’t have them very often.”

“My mom used to make the best chocolate chip cookies,” Alex says quietly, leaning forward in his seat. He rests his elbows on his knees and laces his fingers together. “She would let me stir the chocolate chips into the dough, and my brother and I would always steal spoonfuls of dough. She’d get so mad because I’d eat half the dough before she even got a chance to make the cookies.” He chuckles at the memory. “She’s the reason I love warm cookies and ice cream.” He nods toward his empty bowl.

That’s a sweet memory. “Does she still make them for you?” I ask, trying to dig some information out of Alex.

His smile falters. “Nah, she’s been gone a long time. Almost twenty years.” Sitting back in his seat, his posture tenses. “Just my dad and me now, and let’s just say he was never into baking.” The comment is laced with sarcasm, but I detect anger as well.

“I loved baking,” I whisper. “When I could.”

“She loved baking too.” Our eyes meet, and beyond the face that could grace the covers of men’s fashion magazines, the chiseled muscles and perfect hair, I see a world of sadness and hurt.

“How did she die?” I ask hesitantly, knowing better than to ask such a personal question.

He stares off into the dusk, avoiding my question. Embarrassed for being so nosy, I reach over and grab his bowl, heading toward the kitchen. Maybe if I do the cleanup, he’ll forget I asked. Guiding the patio door open with my elbow, I juggle the glass bowls in my hands as I hear Alex mutter behind me, his voice strained with emotion.

“She was murdered.”