The First Taste(116)

“I’ll be back in the morning to start the cake,” Flora sings, patting her purse at her side.

“Actually,” Andrew says, turning back, a wary look etched on his face, “I thought Amelia could make it.”

I gape. “Me? I can’t—I’ve never . . . I . . . don’t . . . bake.”

He chuckles in a most irritating way. Flora joins in, to my dismay. “That’s a wonderful idea,” she agrees.

“It’s not.” I give Flora a serious look. “I’m a terrible baker. Absolutely awful. The last time I made muffins, they were gluten-free and vegan. My assistant gagged, spit one out, and eventually went home for the day.”

“Vegan?” Andrew exclaims. “Never mind. You don’t have to bake.”

I plead with Flora. “It would be so great if you could just—”

She shakes her head. “You’ll do fine, honey. Just make it with love, and it’ll turn out great.”

Make it with love. That doesn’t really help. I’d prefer a more concrete tip, like using buttermilk or cage-free eggs. “Maybe you could come early and help me?” I ask.

She looks at Andrew. They exchange a smile, as if they’re in on a private joke. I’m pretty sure I’m that joke.

“I think that would be fine,” she says. “Everything’s already in the fridge. I’ll swing by around ten, and we’ll do it together.”

I sigh with relief. “Thank you.”

Andrew leans in and kisses her on the cheek. “Thanks, Flora. For tonight and tomorrow. You’re a huge help.”

“It’s no trouble. Goodnight, you two.”

Andrew closes the door after her and locks it. He turns to me and rolls his eyes. “Sorry about that.”

“It was sweet. Is she a friend of your mom’s?”

“She’s Pico’s mom.”

“Oh, right. Of course.” I pause. “What’s a Pico?”

“A guy who works for me. A friend.” He grins. “We still have quite a bit to learn about each other, don’t we?”

I nod. That’s one way to kill the mood—a stark reminder that we’re about to embark on something huge while we’re still strangers in a lot of ways. “I probably shouldn’t have come here tonight.”

“Really?” He closes the distance between us and lifts my chin with his knuckle. “You sure? I was just thinking the opposite. I’m glad you’re here.”

“It’s not too soon?”

“To sleep in my guest room?” He winks. “Come on.”

As he leads me through the house, I finally get a look around. It’s a good size, much more spacious than my apartment, which is big by New York standards. Like the exterior, the decor is traditional but with modern updates such as hardwood floors, clean lines, and—to my delight—an exposed-brick fireplace.

He notices my gaze. “It’s a little warm tonight,” he teases. “Let’s give it a few months.”

A few months. With Andrew. Glee wells up my chest. “Can I get a tour?” I ask.

“Not much to see,” he says. “I’ll get us a drink. Make yourself at home.”

He may believe there isn’t much to see, but to me, it’s like opening the second volume of his life. When he leaves, I stand in place and look everywhere I can. There isn’t more than necessary in the room—a wood coffee table with a remote positioned next to some car magazines. An overstuffed brown leather couch that faces an obscenely big flat-screen TV. A table in the entryway with a dish for keys and spare change. Sparse but tasteful. If I remember our conversations correctly, Shana never lived here. He bought this after she left, so he must’ve decorated it himself.

It doesn’t look like a child lives here. The biggest indication is a large bookcase with shelving that appears to be divided between the two of them. The lower half holds coloring books, crayons, fairytales by the Brothers Grimm, Disney DVDs, and a small, stuffed unicorn. I browse the books at eyelevel. Manuals on cars and motorcycles. Some crime fiction. I pick out a book with a spine that reads On Grief and Grieving and flip through the first few pages. It’s been four years since Shana left, but is Andrew really over her? What would I have found here even a year ago?

And there’s the small detail that she’s back in his life. As much as it concerns me to go head to head with someone who once captivated Andrew at every turn, I know I can’t back down. Because he deserves better. Bell deserves better.

“That should be in a Goodwill box,” Andrew says from behind me. “It was a gift, honest.”

I turn around, holding it to my chest. “Your house is tidy for having a small child.”

“It doesn’t always look like this, but Bell is pretty good about picking up after herself. I told her that’s what adults do, and she listens.”

I take a deep breath. My emotions are raw tonight, close to the surface, perhaps not the best time to get into a deep conversation. But if I’m going to sleep under Andrew’s roof, I have to speak up. “I need to know about her.”

He pauses, looking me over. “Bell?”

“No. I mean yes, her too, but this—” I hold up the book. “This is a book about losing a loved one to death. How badly did Shana hurt you?”