“TV junkie much?” he asked as she nearly bowled him over with a hug of thanks.
Another woman’s laughter echoed in his head. Another woman’s arms around him. He must not remember!
Sam was speaking. “… have no idea. How else am I supposed to spend my nights?”
His arms tightened involuntarily around her. “I can think of a few ways.”
She swatted his arm before he released her and headed for the kitchen. He’d discovered a while back that kitchens were great places to work off a case of panic. Lots of fussy little jobs to do with his hands and attention to detail to distract him. Tomorrow he’d have to go grocery shopping. He already had supplies for a simple spaghetti alfredo in deference to Sam’s vegetarian preferences, and he set about whipping it up.
They ate a late lunch on tray tables in the living room, which felt cave-like with the windows draped in thick curtains. She’d taken out her contacts, and her eyes glowed an unearthly shade that was more than a little unsettling. He was fascinated, though, by how Sam continuously cycled through no less than four television shows. “You’re going to wear that remote out,” he commented.
“Get your own if you’re worried about it,” she shot back.
The tough, mouthy version of Sammie Jo was back, apparently. Which one was the real person and which one the act? It was hard to tell. He had to give her credit for distracting him, though. He’d made it all the way through the meal without one flashback. Small steps, buddy. Small steps.
“So how do we go about gathering all this supposed intel the neighbors possess?” he asked.
“Can you bake?” she asked obliquely.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
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