“Thank God. Sorry I scared you. You’re kind of jumpy, aren’t you?”

  What was he supposed to say to that? Yes, yes he was. Heat rose to his face. He was blushing, which, thanks to his fair skin and freckles, was a lot more obvious. Swell. He was grateful when Tom pulled him to his feet.

  “Tom, I, um, I should probably warn you. I’m always like this. I’m fidgety, talk to myself, stick my head in ovens and trip over things because when I haven’t got my head stuck in an appliance, it’s up in the clouds somewhere. I run on coffee, and when the coffee’s run out, I still act like I’m running on coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. Even when I’m sitting still, my mind’s going at full speed. I’m just telling you this so you don’t think you’re staying with some crazy twit. I’m not crazy or a twit. I know I probably sound like it right now, but I’m pretty certain Jules would have said something if I was certifiably ready for Bedlam, and if you haven’t guessed, I ramble too. Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Tom chuckled and led Joe over to the couch, pulling him down with him as he sat. He was grinning from ear to ear, and Joe couldn’t figure out what he’d done to be on the receiving end of such a smile. Now that the craziness had somewhat ebbed—or spread—it was too soon to tell—it was a little strange sitting here on his usually empty couch in the middle of his usually empty living room, holding hands with a complete stranger and liking it.

  “Joe, you don’t have to explain yourself, or be anyone other than you. Not for anyone else and certainly not for me.”

  Joe eyed him skeptically. “Yeah?”

  “The way Elsie, Donnie, and Bea jump to your defense, shows how much they care about you. Even if you are a little… enthusiastic.” Tom laughed softly at Joe’s pout, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Lucky for both of us, I happen to be a guy who doesn’t mind a little enthusiasm.”

  “Ah, but you don’t know that,” Joe pointed out, tapping Tom lightly on the head. “You might not like it at all.”

  Tom smiled warmly. “If that’s the case, you’re well on your way to changing my mind.”

  “Oh, uh, thanks.” Joe dropped his gaze to his hands, still in Tom’s larger ones. Geez, was he really that pale? Next to Tom, he certainly looked it. Then again, the man was bronzed all over. Maybe he was a bouncer at a nightclub. Joe stifled a gasp. What if Tom was a hustler, one of those playboys who got paid to keep wealthy men… entertained? There wasn’t a shortage of naughty nightclubs around here. Tom chuckled, and Joe snapped out of it. That had to be the worst idea he’d ever come up with. Bea was right. He was overdramatic.

  “You’re drifting off again.”

  “Sorry. Started wondering who you might be.” Should he pull his hands out of Tom’s? This was a little strange. Wasn’t it? Yes. Maybe. He discreetly pulled his hand away to scratch a pretend itch on his jaw.

  “Conclusion?”

  “Uh, you don’t want to know.”

  Tom sat back, his eyes alight with amusement. “Try me.”

  This should be interesting. “Um, high-end rent boy.”

  Tom’s jaw went slack. “A prostitute?”

  Well, when you say it like that, of course it sounds bad. “Which is why I said you didn’t want to know.”

  Tom stared at him before bursting into laughter. “Joe, you are something else.”

  Joe didn’t quite know what to say to that. This was uncharted territory for him, and he was lost in the woods without so much as a matchstick to light his way. Blake had been enough of an experience, thanks very much, and what had it gotten him? A whole lot more than just heartache, that’s what. Hadn’t he learned his lesson? Joe stood quicker than he should have and backed away from the couch.

  “Um, I’m going to grab another blanket for you. Be right back.” He spun around and all but sprinted to his room, cursing himself for being such a coward.

  No, he wasn’t a coward; he was sensible. He had to focus on helping Tom regain his memory and then… then what? Say good-bye, he supposed. He tried not to think about that as he swiftly changed into his own pajamas, then grabbed an extra blanket for Tom, along with some of his own bedding. He went back into the living room, where he found Tom sitting right where he’d left him, still smiling. The guy sure did smile a lot. Not that Joe was complaining. It was preferable to whatever had led to Tom’s bruised knuckles.

  Dropping his pillow and blanket on the armchair to his right, Joe handed over the remaining blanket to Tom, who took it with a “thank you,” his gaze going to Joe’s armchair.

  “You’re not planning on sleeping there, are you?”

  “How else am I going to keep an eye on you? It’s far more comfortable than the floor. Jules said you needed to be observed, so that’s what I’m going to do. I’ll wake you up regularly through the night to check you’re okay.”

  “Won’t you be uncomfortable?”

  “Nah, I’ll be fine. I’ve slept there plenty of times when Bea and the kids have stayed over.”

  Tom shook his head. “I can’t let you do that, Joe. You’ve done enough for me already. I won’t have you sleeping so uncomfortably in your own home because of me.”

  “You’re right,” Joe said with a smile and put his hand on Tom’s shoulder. “This is my home, and I’ve decided you need to rest and I’m going to keep an eye on you.”

  “Okay,” Tom sighed, giving in. Though Joe could tell he wasn’t happy about it.

  “It’s a bit late for a meal, but how do you feel about some apple and cinnamon pie, and some milk?”

  Tom’s eyes lit up and he looked about ready to salivate. “That sounds great.”

  Joe motioned for Tom to follow him and he headed into the kitchen. He tried to tell himself he wasn’t nervous about Tom trying his pie. He pointed to the breakfast nook tucked against the corner in his cozy little country-style kitchen and got busy warming up some pie and milk. As he did, he noticed the way Tom took in every inch of the kitchen. Tom did that a lot, it seemed. It was more than curiosity, and a little odd, but he could hardly fault the poor guy for feeling mindful of his surroundings.

  Joe’s kitchen wasn’t the biggest, but it was a decent size, warm and bright with its subdued yellows and reds, the white refrigerator, sink, and appliances all matching. The most expensive and well-used appliance was, of course, his oven.

  He walked the pie and milk over to Tom and poured a mugful of juice for himself. “It’s not state of the art or anything, but it’s got everything I need. My favorite is this nook. There’s nothing more relaxing than looking out at the garden in the morning with a fresh cup of coffee as the sun shines down on the world.” He sat opposite Tom and turned his attention out the window, pretending like he wasn’t about to break out into a cold sweat.

  Halfway through, Joe noticed Tom’s brows had drawn together as he stared down at his plate. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea. Dammit, maybe he should have made the guy some toast. Get a hold of yourself, Joe. It’s just pie. “Something wrong?”

  “No, it’s just… it tastes… warm. I mean, not temperature-wise, but like… warmth.” Tom met his gaze, the glow of his smile enough to light up the darkness outside.

  “The smell of cinnamon, vanilla… it makes me think of the seaside. Almost like a distant memory, something so far away it’s out of reach, but the feeling from it is still very much alive, and so full of love.” He lowered his eyes to his plate and frowned. “Guess that sounds pretty crazy, huh?” When there was no answer, he looked up at Joe, his eyes going wide. Probably due to the stunned expression on Joe’s face. “Joe?”

  “My parents used to work a lot when I was a kid,” Joe confessed quietly. “They were farmers, born and raised, so they didn’t really have many options when they moved to the city. They moved here because they wanted me to have a better life than the one they’d had.” Joe shifted awkwardly in his seat and turned his attention back to the window. “On Sundays when they should have been resting, they’d spend every moment of the day with me, taking me all over New York. We’d go to a park or to the beach, Coney Island. We always had picnics with the most amazing pies, cakes, and muffins. The seaside was always my favorite.” He met Tom’s gaze, and smiled wistfully. “We always had apple and cinnamon pie at the seaside. I wonder what my mother would think of the subtle little changes I made to her recipe.” Tom gaped at him, and Joe couldn’t help his shy laugh.

  “You… you made this?” The awe in Tom’s voice sent a little shudder through Joe.

  “It’s just pie,” Joe said, embarrassed.

  “It’s not just pie, Joe. I won’t let you get away with that. You’re sharing a little piece of yourself with the world, and it’s… amazing. Something this good that makes you feel something? That’s a gift.”

  For a moment, Joe sat frozen to the spot, trying to figure out if Tom was just being polite, but the very serious expression on Tom’s handsome face told him he wasn’t. This was ridiculous. No one could taste what he had in his heart. Sure, he put everything into his baking, and when he did, he often lost himself in some happy childhood memory, something brief and faint and faraway he could never have or feel again. There was absolutely no possible way Tom—who knew absolutely nothing about Joe, who knew nothing about himself—could have been able to see that.

  “Joe? What’s wrong?”

  Joe gave a little start and shook his head. “I’m sorry. It’s been a really, really long day. We’re both tired, and I think I just got a little caught up in some old memories. I’m fine.” No one had ever said anything like that to him before. No one he’d ever known understood him when he talked about tasting memories. They all thought it was him just being weird again. Now that he was faced with someone who understood, he didn’t know what to do.

  “Are you sure?”

  Joe nodded. “I’m going to try and get some sleep. Tomorrow we can do some online searches, see what we can find. You finish up, and I’ll leave the lamp on so you won’t trip over anything.” Tom didn’t look convinced, and Joe was grateful when he didn’t push him on the matter.

  He left the kitchen and made his way to the small but tidy bathroom. After closing the door, he leaned against the sink. Tomorrow, Jules would tell them how to help Tom, Joe would do it, send the man on his way, and his life would go back to the way it had been. Wouldn’t it? Yes, it would. It had to. After brushing his teeth, he was ready for some much-needed sleep. Joe quietly made his way back to the living room and turned off the lights, leaving just the warm glow of the lamp on the wood coffee table. Then he fluffed his pillow and snuggled under his blanket in the armchair. He’d drifted off to sleep when he dazedly heard his name being called.

  “Joe? Are you asleep?”

  Damn. He must have been really tired. The only light in the room came from the glow of the moon filtering in through the window. Tom must have turned off the lamp at some point, but instead of sleeping, he sat on the couch, a blanket wrapped around him while he watched Joe. Wasn’t Joe the one who should be keeping an eye on Tom, not the other way around? Nice job, Joe. “Not yet.”

  “I meant what I said earlier. You’ve got a gift. You might not see it, but I do.”

  Not entirely sure what to say to that, Joe still smiled. “Thanks, Tom. If you need anything, just let me know.”

  “You’re welcome, Joe. I will. Good night.”

  A few seconds later, Joe fell asleep, a smile still on his face.

  Four

  Darkness.

  He lay in wait in the shadows, silently listening. There was something he had to do, something important. His life was on the line. Why couldn’t he remember? A sharp pain exploded in the back of his skull, and he fell to his knees, wheezing, and feeling sick to his stomach. They knew! They had to. A heavy weight barreled on top of him, and he struggled with what strength remained, his blood running cold, knowing they had every intention of killing him. They wanted him dead. Why? His head was fuzzy, and the darkness was growing inside, threatening to take over. He couldn’t let them… couldn’t….

  Someone called out, reached out for him, but he couldn’t tell if it was someone else looking to put an end to his life. What was happening? The pain was crippling, and his muscles tensed, his body prepared to defend itself. He wouldn’t die, not here, not now, not after everything he’d done. A fierce cry escaped him, and he sprang up, knocking the mass off him and wrestling it to the ground. He pinned strong arms beneath him, surprised when the body stilled, and he heard a soft, lulling voice that had a strange, calming effect on him.

  “Tom, it’s me, it’s Joe. It’s okay. No one’s going to hurt you. You were having a nightmare. You remember me, right?”

  Tom? Was that his name? He blinked down, his eyes meeting wide eyes the color of the ocean. The seaside…. “Joe?”

  A shaky smile came onto the man’s face. “Yeah, that’s right. It’s Joe.”

  Sweet, jittery, bashful Joe, who had taken him in and been so kind to him. Joe, whose handsome face filled with such tenderness, flooding Tom’s entire being with a feeling he couldn’t describe but wanted to bask in. It had been so long since anyone looked at him that way. He couldn’t remember, but he felt it. He found himself unable to move. Instead, he lowered himself, wrapping his hands around Joe’s head as he nuzzled his face in the crook of Joe’s neck. Just for a minute. He needed someone to hold on to. Someone he could trust. He didn’t know Joe, but for some strange reason, he felt he could trust him. He desperately wanted to.

  “What’s happening to me, Joe? Why can’t I remember?”

  Joe wrapped his arms tightly around Tom’s back, rubbing comfortingly with strong hands. It had been so long since he’d trusted someone or felt like he wasn’t alone. Was he alone? Why did the thought of trusting someone—anyone—leave him feeling cold?

  “I don’t know what’s happening, but we’ll figure it out, okay?” Joe’s voice was almost a whisper, the sadness and pain subtly woven into his mellow baritone akin to Tom’s. For a moment it was almost as if Joe had read his thoughts. What would have happened to him if Joe hadn’t found him? Somehow he felt there was more than one answer to that question, none of which resulted in anything good. Was it just gratitude that had Tom feeling attached to Joe?

  How could he not remember anything about himself, yet put his trust so completely in this man? He was practical, he knew that. Procedure, discipline, levelheadedness were words that came to mind when he thought of himself. His attraction to Joe might not have been foreign to him, but the depth of feelings swirling about his head was very new. Yet for every sensible rebuttal his head offered, his heart overruled each and every one.

  Tom pulled back slightly, looking into Joe’s eyes, and he lowered his gaze down to Joe’s lips. What did Joe taste like? Sweet like his pies? Warm like his smile? It occurred to Tom that he was somewhat of a sappy romantic, which felt at odds with the source of his current predicament. It was hard to concentrate with Joe under him. Speaking of hard….

  Something stirred down south, and Joe’s eyes widened, as did Tom’s. Tom scrambled up, and quickly deposited himself on the end of the couch, his hands clamped tightly on his lap while Joe sat himself on the other end, looking everywhere but at Tom. He turned on the small lamp, his gaze on the floor.

  Good God, what the hell was wrong with him? How could just thinking about a kiss make him hard so quickly? Joe probably thought he was some kind of pervert, wrestling him to the ground and then getting hard like that.

  “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. That’s never happened before.” The man had saved his life, and this was how he showed his gratitude? “At least I don’t think so. I, uh, maybe it’s been a while for me too.” Tom needed to calm down. This really wasn’t the time or place. When he glanced at Joe, he noticed how Joe’s cheeks were flushed, his legs crossed, and he darted his gaze around the room to avoid Tom. “Would you mind if I use your bathroom?”

  “You don’t have to ask, Tom. This is your home while you’re here,” Joe replied somewhat unsteadily. He cleared his throat and motioned to the kitchen. “I’m going to, um, get some water.”

  Tom nodded and sat there.

  Joe didn’t budge.

  “Should I…? Okay, I’ll go first.” Tom jumped to his feet and rushed down the hall to the bathroom. He closed the door and went to the sink, where he splashed his face with cold water. What the hell was wrong with him? He wiped the excess water from his face before studying himself in the mirror, willing himself to remember something—anything. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and tried to recall. It was all in there beyond the veil of blurred shapes and colors. Faceless people, muffled voices. What if his memory didn’t come back? He quickly shook himself. Whatever happened, he’d figure it out. He was a survivor. Holding up one of his hands, he flexed his fingers, his bruised and reddened skin stretching over his knuckles. Whoever had hurt him, he’d hurt them back. At least that was something.

  With a sigh, he dried his face and turned off the light before heading into the living room. Joe was huddled in the armchair under his blanket. He was pretending to be asleep. Tom had no idea how he knew that, but he did. With a small smile, he went back to the couch. If Joe wanted to pretend whatever had happened hadn’t happened, then Tom would go along with it. He owed Joe that much.

  Tom woke the next morning to the most amazing smells: the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the mouthwatering whiff of baked pastries. His stomach growled, demanding to be introduced to the source of such decadence. Getting up, he stretched and noticed his jeans and T-shirt had been cleaned and carefully draped over Joe’s armchair, along with his leather jacket. The clock on the mantel said it was nine in the morning. Wow, had he really slept that late? Guessing by his reaction, sleeping in wasn’t something he did often, and considering he’d slept on a couch, he was even more surprised by it. How early had Joe gotten up to get Tom’s clothes washed and bake whatever smelled so good?

  He padded down the hall to the bathroom, and after washing up, shaving, and running a comb through his disheveled hair, he got dressed, smiling at the feel of his own clothes—the only thing connecting him to the man he was. They fit perfectly, from his dark jeans and charcoal-gray long-sleeved T-shirt to his black socks and boots. He looked himself over in the mirror. Not much color in his wardrobe, but it felt right. The clothes were good quality, and his jacket a designer brand. Suddenly, a thought struck him. They’d taken his wallet but left a really expensive jacket behind.