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His Favorite Color
Power.Money.
They go hand in hand.
So, when Jake says it—that power is the one thing his mom likes more than money—it’s really no surprise to me. I know he’s lived that truth so completely it’s embedded in his soul. It’s a palpable thing.
When I don’t stand up to join him, he sits back down.
I take a sip of the beer I forgot about and then offer the rest to him. I’m not sure who needs it more right now, but I do it anyway.
He takes it with a, “Thank you.”
To add some much-needed levity—why ruin a perfectly good sunset by a lake?—I shift the conversation away from the uncomfortable. “Tell me about yourself,” I say, and then add, “Off the record.”
He gives me an odd look.
I nudge into him. “The stuff I can’t find online.”
“Like what?”
“Like…what’s your favorite color?”
He deadpans. “You’re kidding, right?”
I playfully snatch my beer. Take a sip and hand it back. Try not to think about how our lips just touched the same surface. “Totally serious.”
He lightens and huffs through his nose. “Why do you—”
“Just tell me,” I quip.
“Blue.”
I nod. “Blue. Now, your turn to ask me something.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with anything.”
I groan in mock frustration. “Jake,” I say, pointing toward the house. “We looked like a couple of idiots in there just answering some simple questions. We need to know everything about each other that normal couples would know. We still have tonight and tomorrow to get through.”
His eyebrow hitches. “Everything?”
The suggestion behind the word makes something inside me melt. He already knows everything about me in that regard, whether he remembers or not.
“Your turn,” I redirect, then add, “PG, please.”
That makes him laugh. A swig of beer. “No fun.”
“Fun’s not part of the deal.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He thinks for a second. “Your favorite food.”
“Italian.”
“Keep going…”
I grin, slightly impressed. He’s outdoing the journalist. “Maggiano’s. Their three-cheese ravioli.”
His lip curls. “We need to fix that.”
