Page 23 of In Another Lifetime

“No, I’m really that bad.”

“Ha-ha. I meant Gordon. Do you think his yelling and insults are just for the show?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe.” He took a sip of his wine. “What do you like to cook best? Outside of baking, that is.”

I forked a tender twist of cavatappi pasta, considering it. “Baking and cooking are different, though, don’t you think?”

He looked down at his plate. “Never thought about it. I can’t do either.”

That was a lie. He had considered it. We’d had this same discussion once. In another lifetime. At least for me.

“My specialty is stuffed chicken marsala with mashed red-skin potatoes—usually with green beans.”

Dayton’s fork froze in midair because he’d always loved when I—when Melonie—made that.

“With apple pie and cinnamon ice cream?” he asked in a low voice.

Indeed that was what I’d always made when I went all out, but I couldn’t push too far. Deep down, I knew if I said more to rouse memories of the past, he’d get suspicious.

My shoulder lifted. “We were talking cooking, not baking. And that’s kinda fussy, don’t you think? It’s hard to find cinnamon ice cream, so I’d have to make it myself. And I don’t even have an ice cream machine. So it would probably be chocolate cake with thick chocolate ganache icing.”

He nodded, seeming content with my answer. “So what do you do when you’re not tempting men with your culinary skills.”

Oh shit…

Another trigger.

I took a sip of wine. “I’m an ESL teacher.”

“English as a second language teacher,” he echoed slowly. I didn’t look at him while I poked at another noodle. “What language?”

“English, of course. On my end. And I work with French and Spanish students. Usually those kids from Europe don’t need much help, though. I swear, sometimes, their English is better than mine. But occasionally, there’s a student who needs some shoring up. Usually younger students who are gearing up for a year abroad in student exchange,” I told him in a rush, inundating him with information in hopes he’d let go of me being multi-lingual, as Melonie had been.

The jobs were completely different, though, so maybe…

“You speak Spanish and French?” he said, and I could see his detective brain parsing through info. In the middle of a crowded restaurant wasn’t the place for a conversation about soul switching, especially when I wasn’t even sure if he’d believe me.

“Yeah.” I nodded along with my confirmation. “German, too. I’m in the middle of learning Japanese. I think it’ll be a while before I’m fluent in that, though.” I shrugged. “I love languages.”

As Melonie, I’d always said the two foreign tongues were more than enough. I’d said that to him, more than once, so I hoped knowing two more languages would sidetrack this conversation. I had my doubts, since it came on the heels of the food disclosure.

“What about you? How long have you been a detective?”

“You tell me.”

“What?”

He stared at me until I was a second from calling Kale for a rescue. If that happened, I could guarantee, Dayton would never see me again.

“Never mind. I’m just…” He shook his head. “I’ve been a detective for six years. I was vice for five years before that.”

“Like drugs and stuff?”

“Mostly. Sometimes, prostitution, trafficking, gambling, monitoring gun activities. Things like that. Undercover a lot.”

“Your wife musta loved that.”

He sank back in his chair with a soft smile curling his lips. “Ahhh,” he hummed. “She wasn’t a fan. One year, for our anniversary, I was able to come home for the night—under the cover of doing some scouting for the gang I’d infiltrated—they thought I was someplace else entirely. And she ended up with a rough-looking, long-haired, scruffy-faced guy at the dinner table.”

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