With a firm knock, I wait for him to unlock the door and grant me entrance inside.
He pulls open the door and glances me over. “You brought dinner.”
“I said I would,” I answer, stalking in through the open door and breezing right past him.
“Let yourself in,” he says under his breath.
I ignore his remark. He’s probably grumpy from a six-week coma. I’m sure I would be too. I waltz into the kitchenette and drop the paper bag filled with dinner on the table. “I wasn’t sure what you eat, so I bought quite a few things. Whatever you don’t finish, pop in the fridge, and you’ll have a meal for tomorrow and the next day.”
“You’re not staying.”
It’s not a question, and I can’t tell if there’s disappointment or relief. He’s made it impossible to read his body language or his tone.
“I have to get back to Kona.” And while I had intended to join him for dinner, there’s something about him, a darkness that swirls around him, that makes me nervous.
“Kona, as in Hawaii?” His brow is tight. “That’s a far way from New York City.”
“My dog, Kona,” I say, and clear my throat.
“Sit.” His words are a command as he pulls out an empty chair and nods for me to take it.
I open my mouth to object. I’m not a dog. I don’t take verbal commands as orders. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
“I invited you to sit,” he says.
I oblige, if only because I brought dinner and I’m looking forward to the meal in front of me. We sit and eat. There’s a stillness over the room. I use the wooden chopsticks while the mysterious man sitting across from me utilizes a fork.
“You didn’t mention earlier that you have a pet. What kind of dog do you have?”
“An Australian Shepherd.”
“I’d like to meet him or her.”
“Her,” I say, and reach for my glass of water that he put out on the table. I take a sip, and my gaze is locked on his. “You still don’t remember anything from before the shooting?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and cracks his neck from side to side with a wince.
Why do I feel he may be hiding something from me?
“Well, I’ve got to call you something. If you can’t remember your name, the hospital had you listed as John Doe.”
His top lip snarls at his disgust. “That’s not my name.”
“Obviously,” I say, and roll my eyes. “But you need a name, and Bearded Bad Boy just doesn’t seem appropriate.”
His eyes widen. There’s a hint of recognition, and for a man who supposedly doesn’t remember anything, I can’t help but wonder if he’s been hiding the truth from me or had a memory resurface.
Or it could be that I just gave him a nickname that he finds insulting.
“What did you call me?”
“Bearded Bad Boy,” I say, like it’s a phrase I just invented.
His gaze is stone as he stares straight into my soul.
I refuse to flinch or cower. He’s the one insisting he doesn’t know who he is.
“That’s an interesting choice.”