I wake Thursday morning to the smell of hotcakes and sausage and brewing coffee, so I dress quickly and go out to the kitchen to see Jake pouring orange juice out of McDonald's cups into his drinking glasses. "Hey there."
He jumps and turns around. "Damn. You're up."
"Well, good morning to you too."
We smile at each other and he says, "Sorry, I just wanted to have this done before you came out. I was hoping it would help cheer you up a bit."
I put my hand over my heart, so touched I can barely say, "You're so sweet."
He comes over and gives me a hug, tighter and closer than our other hugs have been, and I cling to him tighter too.
"Just want you to be happy," he says gruffly against my hair.
"I am," I mumble into his chest, and right at the moment it's not a lie.
We hold each other a little longer then he says, "Better eat before the food gets even colder," and lets me go.
He's brought me two packages of butter and three of syrup, exactly how many I like on my hotcakes, and he even splurged and bought me a hash brown too though my meal didn't come with one.
"Didn't want you stealing mine," he says when I point this out.
"No, I guess not. Hey, are you going to pour the coffee?"
He gets up to do so and I, naturally, steal his hash brown and hold it under the table while calmly eating my own with my other hand.
When he sits down, he takes one look at me and says, "What did you do?"
"Nothing. Why?"
"Yeah, right." He scans his plate. "Hey there, missy. Where's my hash brown?"
"You ate it already," I say innocently.
He comes around to my side of the table and looms threateningly over me. "Give it back now, or else."
I look up at him, unable to hold back a grin. "Or else what?"
Our eyes meet and lock, and I forget all about the game. My heart picks up speed and I can't look away from him.
He doesn't look away either. He slides one hand around the back of my neck, under my hair, making me shiver, then leans in and kisses me.
His mouth is sure on mine and heat floods me. I had no idea kissing could feel this good. It doesn't last nearly as long as I'd like, though; he eases back and says softly, "Eat your breakfast. Then we'll talk."
I can't imagine talking, not with my brain scrambled by the feelings he's given me, but I nod and silently offer him back his hash brown.
He smiles. "I'd have let you keep it." But he takes it anyhow.
We eat, which turns out to be tough work since my stomach is doing a nervous boogie. He wants to talk. To tell me he shouldn't have kissed me? To say he's kicking me out?
Oh, God. Did the cops call while I was asleep?
I try to focus on eating but eventually I have to ask that one.
He shakes his head. "I promise I'll tell you right away when they do."
So that's not a concern. But everything else still is. I knew I liked him but I didn't realize I liked him. But I do. Am I about to lose him without even getting another kiss?
When I've finished my sausage and hash brown and most of my hotcakes, he says, "Are you done?"
I nod. I can't wait any longer.
He clears his throat, then comes over to me and holds out his hand.
I reach up and take his hand, the hand I've been working so hard to sculpt, and he helps me out of the chair then guides me into the living room. When we get there, he turns me to face him. "Kate, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have kissed you like that."
My heart drops to my feet.
"It wasn't right. You're in a bizarre situation and me pushing myself on you won't help."
"You didn't," I manage to mumble.
He slips a finger under my chin and raises my head so I'm looking into his eyes. What I see there sends a shock wave through me. He's not saying he doesn't-- He's trying to say he--
"I like you too," I say, the words bursting from me. "I do. I might not know who I am but I know I like you. You're the only thing that makes sense in all this. We can figure it out together. Kiss me again."
He grins. "I didn't know how to say it but I guess I don't have to. You're something else, Kate."
He bends his head and presses his lips to mine, and this time he doesn't hold back. He nudges my mouth open with his tongue and kisses me deep and hungry.
Fire explodes through me and I kiss him back the same way and though I don't remember ever French-kissing Jake and I are perfectly in sync and I can feel him growing hard against my stomach and I'm whimpering and he tastes of orange juice and coffee and those are now officially my favorite foods and if I die right here I won't mind.
*****
By dinnertime that night Jake and I have probably spent one hour total on our sculptures and the rest of the time kissing. I love it, love the way he feels against me and the way he makes me feel, but his near-constant erection is making me worry he's going to expect more than I'm ready to give him.
As we're making spaghetti in the kitchen, I have to say something. "Jake, I... I'm not sure I'm ready to..." I can't find the right words, so I just look at him and hope he'll understand what I mean.
At first he looks confused but then he says, "Aw, honey." He sets his sauce-coated stirring spoon into the pot and pulls me into his arms. Against my hair, he says, "As far as you remember, you're a virgin, right?"
My cheeks go warm at his bluntness. "Yeah."
He eases me back from him and looks down into my eyes. "When you're ready, if you're ready, I'd be happy to be the first you remember. But until that happens I'm also happy just to do this." He kisses my nose. "And this." My neck. "And of course..."
His mouth claims mine and I kiss him back with relief and happiness and a rising passion that feels like my underwear's been set on fire.
A wild fizzing noise ends the kiss as the spaghetti pot boils over, and Jake releases me and snaps the stove element's heat to a lower level. "We should probably pay attention before we burn the place down."
"I suppose."
He chuckles, then kisses me hard again before stirring the spaghetti sauce.
We chat the whole time we're eating, but though we're talking about nothing we're saying a lot under the words, and by the end of the meal I realize I feel like I'm ready.
Am I really?
I don't know Jake that well, but I like everything I know about him except his lack of ambition for himself and his art, and that's no big deal. I love kissing him, love being crushed against his strong body, love feeling my own heat rising and his rising against me. I'd probably love having sex with him.
But am I ready?
He reaches over to grab my empty plate to take it to the kitchen, but changes course and runs his fingers lightly over my cheek. I shiver, and he smiles at me then takes my plate away.
I sit watching him go. I am ready. My body's been thundering all day with a heat and hunger that's making it difficult to think, but I know I'm ready. He's sweet and caring and an amazing kisser. I want him. When I was a teenager I expected I'd wait until I was married, but now I'm an adult and I want him. Now.
I get to my feet and go to him in the kitchen, then kiss him hard and hungry, pressing myself against him.
He takes the hint and kisses me deeply, then runs his hands down my back, stopping just before slipping over the waistband of my jeans.
I reach back, grab his hands, and push them down, and he pulls me closer, hips locked to hips, his hands squeezing my butt and making me gasp.
"You sure?" He mutters against my mouth.
"Yeah." I've never been so sure about anything in my life. I have to feel this. Feel him.
I let him walk me slowly backward, loving every second as he kisses me even harder than before, until we reach his bed, where he lays me down and half-covers me with his body. His hands move under my sweater and I shiver with anticipation then give a groan that sounds like no sound I've ever made before as he pinches my nipples through my bra and electric shocks tear through me.
He kisses my neck. "You like that?"
"I like everything you do," I say, locking my arms around him.
"We'll see about that." He pulls away long enough to rip off his shirt, and I throw aside my sweater because I need more of his touch, then he sinks onto me again.
I run my hands over his naked back and down onto his jeans, panting and whimpering and wondering how good sex will feel and whether I'll survive if it's much better than this part.
His hands and mouth are all over my neck and shoulders and my chest where my bra isn't, teasing and nibbling and stroking and driving me insane. When he lifts me up partway and begins fumbling with my bra clasp I gasp, "Yes, please, keep going. I want you."
He groans and says, "God, you're killing me," then kisses me hard and deep before going back to finish off the clasp.
I feel it undo against my back.
He takes both ends in his hands and, his hungry eyes locked to mine, begins to pull it away from my body.
His phone rings.
He drops my bra and tenses.
He's got customized rings for his friends and his job and I don't know this one so I say, "Leave it."
He pushes away from me and stands up. "I can't. It's the cop."
That's why I don't know it. She's never called him.
My body's screaming for him to come back but I have to say, "Okay. Answer it."
He turns to grab the phone and another blast of desire explodes through me at the way his jeans are straining at the crotch. Let it be a short call. Please. I need him back here with me.
He clears his throat. "Hello? Yes, this is Jake. How are-- oh, okay."
I lie on his bed, my whole body a single pounding heartbeat, and watch him stand listening to his phone as the bulge in his jeans begins to deflate. Damn it.
"Okay. Um, yes. We'll be there. Thank you, officer."
Jake puts down the phone and turns back to me.
I hold out my arms to him, but he reaches for his shirt instead and tosses me my sweater. "We have to go to the police station. They expect us there in twenty minutes."
Not quite enough time for my first remembered sexual experience, but from Jake's demeanor it wouldn't have mattered if we'd had hours. "What did she say?"
"Put your sweater on."
I nearly say, "She said that?" but I don't because there's no humor in his face or voice. Instead, I reach behind me and do up my bra then pull my sweater back on before I say, "Jake. What's going on?" Somehow I don't want to be naked any more.
He sits on the edge of the bed, looking at me. Then he takes my hand. "They know who you are. Your name is Donna. Donna Merrill. You are thirty-two, and you live in Ottawa."
Ottawa. That's why nothing in Toronto seemed familiar. Donna Merrill. Donna. Yes, that does seem right, actually, although I've gotten used to Kate. But Merrill means nothing. I really thought my last name was Anderson.
He clears his throat. "Kate. Donna, I mean. You live in Ottawa..." He has to clear his throat again before he can say the rest.
"With your husband."