“That’s not what I asked.”
There was a pause in which the only sound was the rain on the roof, dripping with a melancholy sigh through the canopy of leaves. “Yes. It’s good. It’s . . . what I want.”
The lie was so blatant she didn’t even bother to offer a retort. She simply walked in front of him, stopped a foot away, and looked up into his face. He refused to look at her, so she turned his head with her fingers on his chin. When his gaze met hers, his eyes were black.
She whispered, “I’m so sorry that I can’t remember whatever happened between us. Maybe eventually I will . . . or maybe you could just tell me.”
His eyes were tortured. He swallowed, then gently removed her hand from his face. He stepped back, out of arms’ reach. “Some things are better forgotten, Jacqueline. Sometimes .
