“Well, shit.” His tone was teasing, and he passed me a skewer. “I can still make you a plain burger. Of which you’ll eat every bite.”
“Sounds great! Just no bun. And no kebobs for me.”
His lips pressed together as he moved the cutting board of vegetables between us. I grabbed a potato and speared it.
“That’s your problem. Why no carbs?”
“I teach low-impact, strength-training classes. Protein is what I need. Look how bulked up I am!” Pulling back my sleeve with my pinkie, I flexed my bicep proudly. I’d never had muscles before.
He shook his head. “I’ve seen bigger lumps in Lane’s oatmeal.”
“What the hell!” I kicked his thigh. “Don’t give my baby lumpy oatmeal!”
“Ow!” He laughed, which made me laugh.
“Just because you’re all Mr. Muscles.”
“Muscles need fuel. You need to eat right.” He grinned, and for a moment, we only slid vegetables onto bamboo spears. I didn’t feel like old arguments.
“So what’s going on?” He finished his and moved around me to wash his hands then leaned against the counter still holding the towel. “You usually plan your weekend visits on Monday, not Friday night. Want to talk about it?”
I finished my kebob and reached for the towel to clean my hands. In the time it took to do so, my eyes went from his light brown hair touched with the faintest caramel highlights to his smoky hazel eyes. Patrick was so good-looking. Why didn’t I feel more for him?
“I dunno.” I hesitated, feeling just the slightest bit nervous. “I haven’t been myself lately. I feel like something’s wrong with me.”
“Like what? You sick?”
“No,” I said, crossing my arms. Now I wished I hadn’t brought it up.
“Then what’s this about? What’s on your mind?”
Squinting my eyes closed, I thought about the pressure in my chest, about how it was so hard to take a deep breath. I thought about Patrick and me, and why a no-good punk in a magazine captured my attention when this sunny, Captain America didn’t.
“I feel like somehow I’m destined to make bad choices. I mean, I’ll get these opportunities, and then it’s like I run away or screw them
up somehow.” Hopping down, I walked to the table, my back to him. “Like just for example, why didn’t I stay with you? You were sweet to me, and we had great chemistry. Why did I run?”
He walked over to where I stood, and I turned to study his thoughtful face. “It’s probably because you knew, deep down inside, that if you’d stayed with me, you’d be in jail right now.”
“Dammit, Patrick!” I punched him hard—left jab to the shoulder.
“Shit,” he laughed, rubbing the spot. “You really are bulking up! What was that for?”
“I thought you were being serious.” My brows pinched. “I need you to be serious for once.”
“I’m serious as a fuckin’ heart attack. If we’d stayed together, with how we both are... you’d have ended up sticking a fork in my head or something.”
Even though he was joking, I knew he was right, and it felt like a huge weight off my shoulders. “It’s only because you’re ridiculously sunny all the time. If you weren’t so obnoxiously good-looking, we wouldn’t even have Lane.”
“I guess that’s a compliment.” He leaned back against the table, crossing his arms and giving me The Smile. Panty-melter. “So why the sudden attack of self-doubt?”
“I don’t know.” Rubbing my stomach, I started to pace. “Back then, I was so afraid of being disloyal to Blake’s memory. I felt like if I even acknowledged a man was attractive, I was somehow cheating on him. When I slept with you, I thought I’d die for hurting him like that.”
“I remember.” His voice grew quiet. “But Ken, Blake is dead.”
“I know!” Pushing my hands into the sides of my hair, my mind went to last night and my experience with the box. “Yesterday I was looking at his things—at our things—and it was the first time I could do it without breaking down. I’m scared of what that means, Patrick.”
He exhaled deeply, and for a few minutes he only stood there, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like what? That you could have feelings for someone else?”