The Maestro's Muse-Chapter 10
When I arrive home, I cut the engine and sink back into my seat. I close my eyes, letting my head fall against the headrest with a heavy sigh. My mind is reeling—both from the vision and the fact that I’ve finally figured it out.
The dreams and visions, the reason Cora and I look so alike, my inexplicable ability to play a piece of music I’ve never heard before from memory—it all makes perfect sense now. I finally understand the pull I’ve felt toward Michael since the moment I moved in.
I scrub my face with both hands, trying to fight off yet another headache. Then I grab my bag from the passenger seat, sling it over my shoulder, and open the door. My footsteps are slow as I make my way to the house, as though I’m trying to delay the inevitable confrontation.
I step inside and shut the door behind me, dropping my bag on the floor before heading into the living room. I flop onto the couch with a heavy thud. For what feels like an eternity, I just sit there in stunned silence, staring into nothing.
Shock gives way to confusion. Confusion bleeds into anger—and that’s how, twenty minutes later, I end up on the floor, seated at the coffee table, pouring shots and having every intention of getting well and truly wasted.
That’s how Michael finds me when he strolls in ten minutes later—by which point I’m already three shots in.
“There he is!” I say before pouring shot number four, my speech already becoming a bit slurred. “How’s your day going, Maestro?” I ask, peering up at him with a deceptively sweet smile, batting my lashes.
He raises a brow, the odd inflection in my voice not lost on him. Slowly, he moves closer, eyeing me cautiously, before he finally sits on the floor across from me on the other side of the table.
“Nothing to report?” I ask when he doesn’t answer. I down the shot, smacking my lips before my eyes narrow and I give him a close-mouthed smile, leaning forward.
“Tell you about my day instead, shall I?” I ask as I attempt to pour yet another.
Michael’s mouth opens, probably to stop me, but he thinks better of it, choosing to stay silent.
“I went to the library today,” I inform him, still trying to keep steady as I pour out shot number five, spilling some on the coffee table as I begin to move into drunk territory.
He frowns in confusion, unsure of why a trip to the library would result in… whatever this is.
I continue to sit at the coffee table, having yet to actually throw back my fifth shot. Now I just turn the small glass back and forth with my fingers, staring at the amber liquid.
“Would you like to know what I was looking for?” I ask softly, eyes still staring down at the shot I have yet to take.
“What—” he begins, clearing his throat before starting again. “What were you looking for?” he asks softly, clearly worried about my state of mind.
I can’t help but let out a huff, my eyes still averted as I speak softly.
“Reincarnation,” I finally say it out loud, and I can’t help but let out a soft laugh, but there’s no humor in it. I lift my hands, rubbing my eyes as if that will help me make any sense whatsoever of my jumbled, slightly panicked thoughts.
Michael stares at me, eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar. No doubt he’s shocked that I’ve finally figured it out.
“You—” he whispers, voice catching. “You w-were? Why—Why were you researching th-that?” he asks, clearly growing nervous.
“Oh, is this what we’re doing?” I ask, sarcasm dripping from every word, finally downing shot number five. “We’re just gonna pretend you haven’t known for at least two months?”
I scoff at his nerve as I pour out a sixth shot, my hand more than a little unsteady by now as the alcohol runs through my veins.
Michael swallows nervously, his eyes darting to the puddle of spilled whiskey on the table.
“Don’t you think you’ve had en—” he starts, but my eyes dart to his, flashing as if daring him to scold me for being ‘unladylike.’ “N-Never mind,” he amends quietly.
We lapse into silence for a few minutes, me just staring at my full shot glass, contemplating whether or not I should drink it. Even with my brain swimming in alcohol, I’m aware enough to know that I’ll end up in the emergency room if I keep going like this.
My bottom lip trembles slightly as tears well up in my eyes. Yet, I still can’t look at him as I whisper.
“How could you not tell me?” I ask, finally looking up at him, hurt swimming in my eyes.
Michael’s expression softens, a shadow of pain crossing his features. It makes my heart ache—an overwhelming urge to reach out and take his hand rises in me. But I can’t. Not yet. I need to know. I need to understand why he would keep something like this from me.
“Kendra, I—” he begins softly, his hand twitching slightly, as though he wants to comfort me but isn’t sure if his touch would be welcome.
“I admit, I did start to suspect,” he says gently. “When you comforted me… you did exactly what Cora used to do. You called me Maestro, just like she always did.”
He can’t help but smile wistfully at the memory before a troubled frown chases it away.
“Even the very first night I was able to appear to you… I saw the way you played my music. You didn’t even read the notes. And it was flawless—as if you’d played it a thousand times before. Not only that, but somehow, you could see the music room in your mind—you described it exactly as it had been back then.”
My brow lifts briefly in acknowledgment, though I don’t look at him. I just continue staring at the shot of whiskey in front of me, weighing whether I want to risk it.
“But I told myself there had to be some other explanation,” he admits, shaking his head. “You have to believe me—I wanted to tell you. So many times,” he says, a pleading edge creeping into his voice. “But I was afraid…”
I push the shot glass away without drinking it—much to his relief, if the way his shoulders sag is any indication. At last, I meet his eyes, still silent, giving him space to continue.
“I was afraid of being wrong,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Afraid to hope. Kendra, I’ve been trapped here… alone… for nearly two hundred years. Hope is dangerous for me. The devastation I’d feel if I let myself believe that you were—” he swallows thickly, a wistful, broken smile tugging at his lips, “—that you were my Cora… only to have that possibility ripped away—it was too much to bear.”
I sniffle quietly, my gaze still locked on his.
“So… I kept my suspicions to myself. I hoped—if it was true—you’d come to the conclusion on your own. And you did…”
Tears well in his eyes, and—to both our surprise—they fall, tracing slow, silent trails down his cheeks.
The last vestiges of anger finally drain from me, and I sit back against the couch. I bend my knees, resting my chin on them as I wrap my arms around my legs.
“I can’t believe this is real,” I say softly, staring blankly ahead.
“Three months ago I didn’t even believe in ghosts,” I murmur. “If someone told me I was a reincarnated chick from the 1800s, I’d have had them committed.”
I sigh heavily, feeling the weight of everything crashing down on me. I close my eyes and bury my face in my legs, trying to wrap my head around it all.
I hear a soft rustling and feel Michael’s presence draw closer. I lift my head, resting my chin on my arm as I look at him.
Michael smiles sadly when he sees the tear tracks on my face. He lifts his hand, and my lashes flutter as his palm cups my cheek. I can’t help but lean into his touch, my heart fluttering wildly in my chest.
I open my eyes to meet his, blushing at the way he’s looking at me. I bite my lip shyly, wishing I could read his mind in this moment.
My breath catches when his thumb gently coaxes my lip free, brushing over it in a way that makes my heart skip a beat. I watch him silently as he leans in slowly, his gaze flicking between my eyes and mouth—searching for any sign he should stop.
But I say nothing. I don’t have it in me to stop it—and I don’t think I want to.
As he leans in, I close my eyes again, just before his lips touch mine.
A soft whimper escapes me as I press my lips to his, returning his kiss. One hand rises to wrap around his wrist as he continues to cradle my cheek, while the other lifts to gently cup his face in return as I lean closer.
I inhale sharply when I feel his tongue lightly stroking my bottom lip, seeking entrance—and I gladly give it. My lips part against his, and I hum softly when his tongue dips gently into my mouth to stroke my own.
Our kiss is slow, tentative at first. But it steadily deepens, passion blooming with each passing second. My tongue darts out to stroke his in return, and my hand continues to cradle his cheek as the other trails up the length of his arm, slipping over his shoulder to rest against the side of his neck.
Michael moans softly, pulling me closer as we make out on the floor of the living room. It’s as though he’s trying to make up for lost time—which, I suppose, he is.
Suddenly, he gasps sharply and tears his lips from mine.
My eyes flutter open, confusion blooming—but it quickly gives way to alarm as I see his face twist in agony.
A groan escapes through his clenched teeth, and his hand clutches his chest.
“M-Michael?” I whisper, my voice trembling as panic rises in my throat. “Michael, what is it?!”
His face twists with pain as he continues to clutch his chest, his other hand reaching out for mine. I take it, squeezing gently before I begin to stroke his palm, trying to calm him. I didn’t know what was happening, but I was beyond freaked out.
He closes his eyes and takes long, deep breaths, focusing on my touch, letting it ground him. I frown deeply as I continue to stroke his palm, seeing the muscles in his neck straining, his entire body tense.
After a while, his body begins to relax and his breathing returns to normal.
I open my mouth to ask what the hell just happened, but I raise a brow as a look of pure, unadulterated confusion comes over his face and he looks down at his chest, his hand splayed flat against it.
“What the fuck was that?!” I demand, frowning. My heart pounds in my chest, my body trembling with fear and adrenaline.
Michael slowly looks up, his eyes meeting mine. He looks stunned and confused—which he must be, considering he doesn’t even scold me—as he slowly reaches for my hand.
The frown pinching my brow deepens, watching curiously as he replaces his hand on his chest with my own.
“Can—Can you feel that?” he whispers, his voice filled with awe.
I don’t have to ask what he’s talking about. As soon as he presses my hand there, I feel it. A steady, rhythmic thump against my palm.
For the first time in 188 years, his heart has begun to beat again.
Tears spring to my eyes, my bottom lip trembling as I press my palm more firmly to his chest. A soft, tearful laugh escapes me as I feel it growing stronger—steadier.
I sniffle and scoot closer, his arm curling around my shoulders. Resting my cheek against his chest, I close my eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
A few minutes pass, and then I gasp—startled by the warmth blooming against my cheek and seeping through his touch on my shoulder.
Where once he had been cool to the touch, he’s now warm.
Just as warm as me. Just as human.
Just as alive.
I slowly sit up, my eyes lifting to meet his. A tremulous smile touches my lips as I cup his cheek, flushed with the life now flowing through his veins.
My thumb strokes over his lips lightly, feeling their warmth as a stifled sob escapes me.
“Y—you’re alive!” I say through a soft laugh of pure joy, my hands brushing over his cheeks—his skin growing warmer, his heartbeat stronger. “I can—I can feel you. R—really feel you,” I whisper in awe, my gaze tracing over his face.
At first we couldn’t even touch, but even when I could touch him, it didn’t compare to this. Before now, it was as though my senses were dulled. I could feel him, but... not really.
It was the same with how I saw him. I had always found him handsome, of course, but it was nothing compared to now. Even when he was still attractive, he had felt... muted somehow. Like I was only seeing a dulled version of the real thing.
Even my dreams and visions of him felt like seeing him through a sheer curtain. It was him, but it was like viewing a movie in standard definition.
Now it was like I had gone my whole life seeing in black and white, then suddenly... technicolor.
And he was easily the most beautiful man I’d ever seen—almost ethereal.
My hands gently frame his face as I lean in, pressing my forehead to his and closing my eyes. I breathe a sigh, like a piece of me I didn’t even know was missing has suddenly made me whole again.
Michael smiles, closing his eyes as he presses his forehead back against mine, his arms coming around me, holding me in a warm embrace.
“I—I can’t believe this is really happening,” he whispers, his hands gently rubbing my back as he holds me close. I smile softly, feeling his warm breath against my lips.
Still cupping his face between my hands, I press my lips to his once more. I whimper softly as we kiss, a different kind of energy crackling between us. Our kiss continues to deepen, growing more and more passionate—as though we’re trying to assure ourselves this is real.
He eventually pulls back, his eyes—and fingertips—drinking me in. I smile softly when his hands cup my face, his thumbs stroking my cheeks. His fingers slip into my hair before he affectionately tugs on the end of one of my long curls. I can’t help but giggle softly at the now-familiar gesture.
“You’re really here,” he murmurs, almost in disbelief, his eyes searching mine like he’s afraid I might vanish.
I nod, my smile deepening. “So are you.”
He exhales a shaky breath, his forehead resting against mine again. “I never thought I’d get to touch you like this. Not really.”
His voice cracks on the last word, and I feel it—his joy, his fear, his wonder—all crashing together beneath the surface.
I kiss him again, softer this time, lingering. “You can,” I whisper against his lips. “You are.”
I eventually snuggle into him, laying my head on his shoulder, never wanting to leave his arms.
We just sit there and hold each other, basking in each other’s warmth—wrapped in something that feels like a second chance at life.
“Michael... how do you feel? I mean, really feel?” I ask, pulling back just enough to study his face again.
He tilts his head slightly, focusing on the way it truly feels to be back in the land of the living.
“I feel like I always used to, when I was alive. I can feel my heart beating, I can feel things when I touch them,” he says, emphasizing the point by gently brushing his fingertips through my hair. “I feel warm, where once I only felt cold. And…”
My eyes search his face as he goes silent, and I open my mouth to speak—but before I can ask what he’s thinking, a loud growl comes from his stomach.
“…I’m quite hungry,” he finishes, a slow grin spreading on my face.
“Alright, Maestro,” I say, reluctantly leaving his arms to stand before reaching down and offering him my hands. “Let’s get you fed.”
Once he’s on his feet, Michael and I make our way to the kitchen. I move around the room, checking the fridge and opening cupboards. After a moment, I frown, biting my lip as the truth sinks in—I’m in dire need of a trip to the grocery store.
“So, uh…” I turn to him with a sheepish smile. “It looks like I have no food,” I admit. “I’ll just run out to the store real quick.”
I head out of the kitchen toward the front door, grabbing my keys from the bowl on the entryway table. Michael follows as I open the door and step outside.
I turn to face him—and to both our surprise, he steps past the threshold after me.
I gasp softly, stunned. He had never even been able to do that before.
Michael takes a few steps forward, his eyes fluttering shut as he tilts his head back, basking in the sunlight—for the first time in 188 years.
A stunned smile pulls at my lips, and I let out a soft chuckle of disbelief.
“Um…” I start, then smirk. “Ready for your first car ride?” I ask, lifting my hand and jangling the keys.
His brows lift at the question, eyes flicking from the keys to the red Honda Civic parked in the driveway.
His gaze lingers on it with growing suspicion.
“Are… are you sure it’s safe?” he asks, following me hesitantly, still watching the car like it might rear to life and attack.
I can’t help but giggle softly as I open the driver’s side door. “I promise—you’ll be safe with me.”
A small smile touches his lips—full of affection— as he opens the front passenger door. “Well, I know that,” he murmurs, making me smile to myself, my heart fluttering as I buckle my seatbelt.
“Buckle up,” I say, nodding toward his seatbelt before pushing the key into the ignition and turning it.
I sit back, waiting patiently as he follows my instructions. I press my lips together, holding back a laugh as he tugs on the seatbelt—only to lose his grip and send it snapping back to the retractor.
This process—which is endlessly entertaining to watch—happens a grand total of four times before he finally manages to hold on to the buckle and click it into place.
“Ready?” I ask, glancing at him with a knowing smile as I wrap my hands around the steering wheel.
He gives me a sideways glance, reticent at the almost mischievous grin plastered on my face.
“Um…” he murmurs, eyeing my hands on the wheel. “…yes?” he finally says, though it sounds more like a question than a confident answer.
My smile widens and I giggle softly, glancing out the rear window as I back the car up and turn. I snicker as Michael’s hands shoot out—one gripping the door handle, the other bracing against the dashboard.
I slowly guide the car down the long gravel driveway, stopping at the end. Glancing over at him, I ask once more, “Sure you’re ready?”
Michael swallows nervously, looking between the road ahead and my hands on the wheel. Finally, his eyes flick to mine, and my smile softens into one of reassurance.
“I promise, you’ll make it home safe and sound,” I say gently.
His gaze holds mine, and I see him visibly relax—though only slightly. He nods. “I’m ready.”
I nod back and turn onto the road.
I keep it under the speed limit, not wanting to toss him into the metaphorical deep end too soon. But after a moment, Michael tilts his head, watching the scenery crawl by outside his window.
“I thought you said these cars are faster than horses,” he says, turning to me with a frown of confusion.
I raise a brow, eyes still on the road, and glance at him with a smirk tugging at the corner of my lips.
“You want me to go faster?” I ask, grinning as I press a little harder on the gas. “You got it, Maestro.”
Michael gasps, flinching as his hands dart back to the door and dashboard. His eyes go wide as the landscape turns to a blur around us. On a long, empty stretch of backroad, I take it up to ninety miles per hour—more than double anything he’s ever experienced on horseback.
“W—what the?!” he chokes out, staring out the window in disbelief. “I’ve never even been on a train this fast! How—how is this possible?!”
I chuckle as I ease us back down to a calmer forty-five. “I’m afraid I can’t explain the inner workings of the automobile,” I say, still smiling. “But remind me to introduce you to Wikipedia later.”
We make it into town, where the traffic picks up. I notice Michael getting tense—his eyes darting as cars weave around us, horns honk, and people zip by without a second thought. I reach over and gently take his hand, guiding it to rest on my thigh. I steer with one hand, using the other to lightly stroke his palm, silently reminding him I’m here, and he’s safe.
We pull into the grocery store parking lot, and I find a spot before cutting the engine. We get out and walk toward the entrance—only for Michael to gasp and jump back as the doors slide open on their own.
I giggle, taking his hand and giving it a gentle tug as I lead him inside. I grab a cart from the corral and start down the first aisle, Michael trailing behind me with wide-eyed wonder.
I stop the cart every few feet to grab the items I need, always keeping an eye on him. The last thing I need is to lose him on his first trip to the grocery store.
We reach the meat section, and Michael shivers as the temperature drops. He looks around, fascinated by the freezers and coolers lining either side of the aisle, filled with neatly packaged perishables.
I start looking through the different roasts, trying to find the best one.
“How does roast beef, potatoes, carrots, and biscuits sound?” I ask, still scanning the selection. “I know it’s your favorite,” I add, not noticing the way he looks at me, a soft smile touching his lips.
When he doesn’t answer, I glance up, frowning in concern. But when I see the quiet, affectionate smile on his face, I glance around before looking back at him with a shy, almost flustered grin.
“W-what?” I ask, chuckling nervously as I reach up to wipe at my cheek, wondering if I have something on my face.
Michael’s smile deepens, but he simply shakes his head.
“It is my favorite,” he says softly. “Thank you.”
I smile back, blushing under his gaze, and nod before pushing the cart farther down the aisle.
He continues smiling to himself, as I don’t even realize that I’ve begun to remember more and more things—things only Cora would’ve known.
Deciding that I need to go all-out—being Michael’s first meal in 188 years and all—I also grab everything I’ll need to make apple pie, his favorite dessert. And yet, I still don’t realize the subtle shift happening with my memories.
Once I finish shopping, we make our way to a checkout line. Michael watches—completely fascinated—as I place our items on the conveyor belt. His curiosity only grows as he watches me pay, simply by swiping a card, made of some strange, unfamiliar material through a small machine.
I chuckle softly, promising under my breath to explain later. I didn’t think the people in line behind us would appreciate me taking the time to explain credit cards and the countless wonders of electricity.
I finish paying, thanking the cashier when she hands me the receipt. I steer the cart full of groceries to the car, Michael following at my side. I take out my keys, hitting the button on my key fob to open the trunk.
I smile as Michael helps me load the bags into the trunk before I slam it shut. I push the cart over to the nearest corral before we get in the car and buckle up. We head home and, I snort softly as we pass a young woman walking on the sidewalk, wearing short denim cutoffs and a midriff-baring tank top, and I look over to see his eyes widen—utterly scandalized by the amount of bared flesh he’s seeing out in the open.
“W—why is that young lady walking on the street practically naked?” he asks as he turns, sitting back in his seat, a frown of bewilderment on his face.
I grin, chuckling softly as I flip on my right blinker and make a turn. “Michael, it’s the twenty-first century. That’s pretty standard dress for a young woman,” I reply, shrugging. “And she’s not ‘practically naked.’ She’s wearing shorts and a shirt. Everything that needs to be covered in public is.”
“But—but it’s so…so…improper!” he stammers, a bit overwhelmed by how different the world is than he’s used to.
I raise a brow, a flicker of discomfort stirring at his old-fashioned mindset. “Michael,” I say, my tone firm but not unkind. “Like I said, it’s the twenty-first century. Women are free to live the way they want to, dress the way they want to, be who they want to be—me included.”
Michael bites his lip as he looks out the window, quietly contemplating this brand new world he’s suddenly found himself in. He looks over at me, his eyes softening, seeing my slight tension.
“I’ve offended you,” he says quietly, looking down at his hands. “I’m sorry, Kendra. That was not my intention.”
I glance at him, the tension melting away at the look on his face—clearly upset at the thought of upsetting me. I smile softly and reach my hand over, giving his a reassuring squeeze.
“I know, Michael,” I say softly, looking back at the road, though I keep hold of his hand as I switch lanes. “Yes, what you said bothered me. But I also understand that you’re from a very different world, and you’ll need time to adjust.”
He nods, sighing in relief at my assurance. My thumb gently strokes his soft skin, still holding his hand. “It’s alright, Michael, really.”
He squeezes my hand in silent thanks and we stay like that, holding hands, the rest of the way home.
When we get there, I cut the engine and we both grab the bags from the trunk, carrying them inside to the kitchen. I turn on the oven to give it time to preheat before unloading the shopping bags.
Once everything is laid out on the counter, I gather my long curls into a messy bun atop my head. I reach over to switch on the small radio, and Etta James’ voice soon fills the kitchen.
Michael sits on one of the stools at the island counter, his brows lifting curiously at the music.
I decide to get the longest task out of the way first: the apple pie. Once it’s in the oven, I turn and am surprised to find him still there, quietly watching me move around the kitchen.
“You don’t have to sit there the whole time,” I say, chuckling softly. “Aren’t you bored?”
He merely smiles, shaking his head. “Of course not—I’m with you.”
I blush, ducking my head to hide a shy smile, my heart fluttering at his words.
“S—suit yourself,” I murmur, cheeks still pink, a little flustered by his attention.
While the pie bakes, I get started on the rest of the meal. I unwrap the roast and season it while the skillet heats on the stove. After searing it on all sides, I transfer it to a roasting pan.
Then I mix up the biscuit dough, roll it out, and cut it into circles, placing them on a greased cookie sheet. I move on to the potatoes, chopping them up one by one.
Just as I finish, the oven beeps three times—the pie is ready. I take it out and set it on a cooling rack, then slide the roasting pan in and reset the timer.
While the roast cooks, I fill the sink with dishwater and begin cleaning up. I glance up when Michael joins me, rolling up his sleeves. I smile softly as I wash and he rinses—the domesticity of the moment not lost on me.
We make quick work of the dishes, and I smile up at him. “Thank you for helping.”
“My pleasure,” he replies softly, his eyes searching mine.
The way he looks at me makes my heart flutter. No other man has ever made me feel the way he does—one look, one smile, and I’m completely flustered.
I duck my head, biting my lip in a futile effort to hide my smile as I move to check on the roast. With forty-five minutes left on the timer, I take it out to add the chopped potatoes and baby carrots around the meat, then place it back in the oven. When there are twenty minutes left, I slide the biscuits in to bake.
I smile to myself when “Someone to Watch Over Me” by Ella Fitzgerald comes on the radio—it’s always been one of my favorites. Biting my lip, I turn to Michael and offer him my hand. He takes it, smiling in curious confusion.
“Dance with me?” I ask softly, peering up at him.
“I’d love to,” he replies just as softly, then glances around the kitchen with a slight frown. “But is there enough room in here?”
I grin and giggle softly, gently tugging his hand. “Dancing is a bit different these days,” I say, knowing he’s probably picturing a waltz or something more formal.
We both blush as I guide his hands to my waist. I rest my arms on his shoulders, gently leading him into a slow sway as we move in circles across the kitchen floor.
I smile as he starts out a bit stiff and unsure, but he gradually gets the hang of it. My hands slide over his shoulders, fingers lacing behind his neck as I step even closer. Pressed flush against him, I rest my cheek to his chest and close my eyes. As much as I love this song, the sound of his heartbeat—strong and steady—is the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard.
One song melts into another, and when the timer finally goes off, I seriously consider letting dinner burn, just so I don’t have to leave his arms. I feel safe here—loved, cherished—and I never want to let go.
My eyes flutter open, not having realized I’d closed them in the first place. I lift my head, blushing at the intense longing I find in his eyes, knowing that same longing is reflected in my own. I smile shyly before I duck my head and reluctantly leave his arms to take dinner out of the oven.
Michael sets the table while I bring out the food, arranging it in the center. I pour us both a glass of iced tea and bring them to the table.
I blush for what must be the hundredth time in the last hour as Michael pulls out my chair—ever the gentleman.
I serve him first, placing a little bit of everything on his plate. Once done, I make my plate before giving him a nod and a hopeful smile.
I bite my lip nervously as he picks up his fork and takes a bite. He chews slowly, eyes fluttering closed as he hums softly—tasting food for the first time in nearly two centuries. He swallows before opening his eyes and looking at me.
“Kendra, this is amazing,” he says sincerely, taking another bite. He chews, savoring it, then swallows again. “You have quite a talent in the kitchen.”
I sigh in relief, smiling shyly under his praise. “Th—Thank you, Michael. I’m—I’m glad you like it.”
We spend dinnertime talking and learning more about each other as we eat. When we finish our meal, I start clearing the table, smiling in silent thanks when Michael stands to help.
An hour later I’ve finished my shower and am now ready for bed. I step out of the bathroom and make my way down the hall. I stop at the open doorway of what is now Michael’s bedroom—now that sleep has once again become a necessity.
“Goodnight, Michael,” I call, smiling softly when he looks up.
“Goodnight, Kendra,” he replies, returning my smile, affection in his eyes. “Sleep well.”
“You too,” I reply, giving him one more smile before I turn and continue on into my own room.
I pull back the covers and, just as I’m getting ready to climb into bed, I get a text notification on my phone. I frown, wondering who on earth is texting me when it’s ten o’clock at night. I sigh and pick up my phone, opening my text messages. I freeze when I see my ex-boyfriend’s name on the screen.
Jake: Hey, can we talk? I really miss you…