Page 27 of Fauxmance in the City

“Yep,” I say. “She’s amazing. One of the kindest, most giving people you’ll ever meet.”

“When did you lose your father?” Max asks.

“When she was nine,” Sam answers for me. My head whips to him. I only talked about my father one time with Sam, and I’m touched he remembers this detail.

“I lost my parents when I was thirteen,” Max says.

I turn back to him. “How did they…” I trail off, not wanting to say the word.

“A semitruck smashed into my parent’s car. The driver had been driving all night, and he fell asleep at the wheel. At least, that’s what the article I found about it said. And Uncle Charlie told me the details that weren’t in the article.”

“Wow. That’s horrible, man,” Sam says, sympathy in his gaze. “You must hate that guy.”

“He died, too, and he left behind a young child, a girl named Sari. It was horrible for everyone involved. In my e-mail account, I found messages going back for years between the girl and me. She’s nineteen now. I can’t imagine how that fucked her up. I was depressed for years afterward. I mean, that’s how it sounded in my messages to her.”

“Oh, Max, that’s intense.” I blow air out through my lips. “My mom says Natalie was depressed when my dad died. But if she was, she hid it from me. I only remember Natalie playing with me and trying to cheer me up after he finally passed.”

“Was he sick?” Max asks.

Sam’s gaze captures mine, warmth vibrating from him, a silent question in his eyes. Is this too much for you? I smile lightly, letting him know I’m fine but I appreciate his concern. Our intimate shorthand sends a shiver down my spine like feathers brushing against my skin.

“Pancreatic cancer,” I answer Max. I smile softly, remembering the next part. “I thought it was called pancake cancer. I wouldn’t eat pancakes for years afterward.”

Sam reaches under the table and holds my hand, his thumb rubbing gently over the base of my palm.

“I wore a pink tutu dress for the funeral. It was Dad’s favorite. It was a hard time, but day to day, it’s not something I think much about anymore.”

A swoop of emotion starts in my chest and reaches down into my belly as Sam’s hand continues to hold mine, wrapping me in his comfort.

“That’s one of the great side effects of amnesia,” Max says, drawing me away from the tingling that’s swirling in my body. “You forget all the pain in your life. I have no choice but to live in the moment. I don’t know the past; therefore, I don’t know what I want for the future. My memories coming back will be a blessing and a curse.”

Smiling, I take my hand from Sam’s and squeeze Max’s arm briefly. “That’s one of the sweetest and saddest things I’ve ever heard.”

“Where’s Bailey?” Max looks around, breaking the somber moment.

“Sleeping in the living room.” Sam glances at me, but I keep my gaze on Max. I don’t like these swirling, whirling feelings inside. I have a special to shoot, recipes to remember, and a charade to uphold.

Max presses the swinging door open, and Bailey trots in. The dog whines as he stretches his long form. Max returns to the breakfast nook, and Bailey nestles in next to him.

Sam’s fingers graze my arm, and I shoot up. “I need to check something.”

It’s getting late, and I want to do one last check on the turkey before I retire. I open the fridge and pull it out, pushing the cheesecakes aside on the counter so I can set the raw bird on the island. I stare into the cavity of the twenty-pound bird, where I’m going to stuff rosemary, thyme, onions, and orange slices. Then I pull up the video Natalie made, press mute, and rewatch it discretely so it’ll be cemented in my mind for tomorrow.

“Who’s that?” Max asks on the other side of the island.

I slam my phone face down on the counter. “No one.”

“She looked like she was cooking.”

Sam stands up and comes to my side.

“Oh, uh…that was my sister.”

“Is she a chef too?” Max asks.

“She’s Catie’s assistant,” Sam says, saving me.

“Yeah.” I smile gratefully up at Sam. “We both caught the cooking bug, but she doesn’t like the spotlight.”

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