After an hour of surfing the internet, looking at missing persons reports, anything that could trigger my memory, and coming up empty, I decide to make myself useful and cook dinner. I don’t think Griffin will mind, and really, he deserves a homecooked meal for helping me. I don’t have any money, nothing to offer him for allowing me to stay with him while I figure out who the hell I am, so making dinner is the least I can do. I find some leftover chicken from the day before in the fridge and all the ingredients I will need to make homemade chicken noodle soup and fresh baked biscuits.

I’m feeling productive and happily chopping the last of the veggies when I realize that I know how to cook—soup, at least. Although I’m pleased about this, I am left with new worries. Is this how it’s going to be? My subconscious mind still intact and allowing me to remember how to do things like taking a shower and knowing I will have to shave my legs soon or I will be giving Griffin a run for his money in the leg hair department? When will my memories return? What do I have to do to make my brain work again?

I throw the cooked chicken into the large pot on the stove and set the lid on top. I hope Griffin likes chicken noodle soup because I have made enough to feed a family of five. While the soup simmers, I go back to my internet search. My eyes are growing heavy and I am developing a serious case of computer head, which isn’t good for someone who has a concussion, when I hear a vehicle coming down the long dirt driveway. My spine goes ramrod straight and I retrieve the gun Griffin gave me. I walk over to the front window and see Griffin’s pickup truck.

You’re okay. It’s just Griffin. Get it under control.

I take a few deep and needed breaths, return to the kitchen and put the gun back down on the counter. I decide to give the soup a couple of stirs when in walks Griffin. He is carrying at least a dozen plastic bags in his hands and looking pleased with himself. I stare at the red emblem on one of the bags and immediately recognize it. Why do I know that the bullseye logo belongs to Target? Why do I know that and not something important like if I am allergic to certain foods, like peanuts, something that could cause me to go into anaphylactic shock? The human mind is fascinating, but it’s also frustrating as hell.

“What smells amazing?” Griffin asks.

“I hope you like soup.”

“I do,” he says, giving me one of his rare smiles. “And I hope what I bought you fits.” I follow him into his bedroom, and he places the bags on the bed. “If they don’t fit or you don’t like something, I can always take them back.”

I’m at a loss for words. I can’t believe this man, this stranger, can be so generous, this selfless to a woman he has just met. He gestures to the bags and I quickly regroup and dump the shirts, pants, toiletries, and an array of other things that he thought to get me on top of the comforter. I stare at the enormous pile and notice that he’s bought me pads and tampons, which makes me think that he has lived with a woman before.

A sister? A girlfriend? A wife?

The last two make my heart clench for some reason and jealousy brim to the surface. Does he have a girlfriend or wife? Is he seeing someone? There is no evidence in his cabin that he is dating someone, but then again, he did just move in. It’s also possible that he has a significant other living elsewhere. He did say this morning as he pitched a tent, fresh from sleep, that it has been a while. What did he really mean by that?

I stop theorizing the moment my attention is snagged by a box of condoms lying amongst the toiletries. He must have noticed them at the same time because his face immediately turns red and he swipes that square box off the bed, opens his nightstand drawer and tosses them inside. “Um…it’s not what you think…I just…they’re not for you…I mean us…shit!”

I have never seen a man blush so hard in my life. Or at least I don’t think I have. He looks so fucking sexy flustered. “Griffin, you don’t need to explain why you bought condoms.”

But I so want him to. Is he planning on going out and getting laid? Does he have a girlfriend? Or did he buy them because he is hoping to have sex…with me? That last thought makes my own face heat up. I need to change the subject before my crimson cheeks tip him off.

I clumsily pick up a pair of slippers and a bottle of body wash. “I can’t believe you got me all this. It’s too much, Griffin. I can’t repay you, at least not until I get my memory back and then hopefully, I have a bank account with some money in it.” I set the slippers down and then sniff the body wash. The coconut vanilla scent smells heavenly.

“It’s no big deal,” he says, his tone abrupt. He no longer appears embarrassed and flustered but pissed. Griffin turns and leaves me with all my Target treasures. What the hell just happened? He seemed almost happy when he came home and saw me cooking in his kitchen and now he looks irritated, angry even. I shouldn’t want to figure this man out or attempt to even try to get into his brain, but I do. I want to know why this sexy ex-Navy medic is living in the middle of nowhere and helping me.

It isn’t like he is trying to get into my pants. He hasn’t made a move on me and lord knows he’s had the opportunity. I slept next to him, naked from the waist down last night, and to my knowledge he didn’t even cop a feel. He either isn’t attracted to me, which wouldn’t be that surprising since I look like shit wearing baggy clothes, no makeup and sporting a nice gash in my scalp, or he has a girlfriend, wife or a fuck buddy.

That’s why he bought the condoms, you nimrod.

I close the bedroom door and change into a pair of black yoga pants, a gray t-shirt and a blue hoodie. I slip on a pair of socks and then give myself a once-over in the mirror in the bathroom. Everything fits perfectly. I go back to the pile on the bed and fish through it only to discover that he bought me a pack of black hair ties.

He bought me hair ties. He had to have had or has a woman in his life.

I wrangle my hair into a ponytail and then go to the kitchen to check on dinner. Griffin is walking back into the cabin with more bags. He sets them on the couch and looks me up and down. For the briefest moment I think I see lust in his gaze, but then his annoyance swallows it up and again I feel like shit for intruding on his life.

“I’ll be in the basement installing the new motor in the heater,” he says, walking to the door just off the kitchen.

“Uh…okay. I…” He doesn’t wait for me to finish my thought, so I can apologize for being such a burden. He just slams the basement door behind him. A half hour later I hear him coming up the basement steps. I peer from my bed and see him tinkering with what I believe to be the thermostat in the hallway. Seconds pass and I hear a swoosh come from the vent at my feet and a gust of air penetrates my thin yoga pants.

“The cabin’s small. Shouldn’t take too long to find out if the heater is working properly now,” he says, still eyeing the thermostat. He pushes a button and then walks toward the kitchen. I sit on my bed and resume my search on his phone to see if any missing persons in the area match my description. After a few minutes, Griffin strolls into the bedroom with a beer in hand. He doesn’t offer me one, not that I should accept a beer since I am still recuperating. In his other hand is a Verizon bag and he lays it on my lap before taking a seat at the foot of my bed.

“What’s this?” I ask, putting his phone down on the bed next to me.

“I start work next week. I would feel better if you had this…if you needed me while I was gone.”

I look in the bag and pull out an iPhone identical to his. “Griffin, I really can’t accept this.” I watch him swig from his beer bottle. His lower lip is glistening from the hearty sip he took. I struggle not to stare at his full lips and imagine what I want him to do with them.

“I already programmed my number and Trent’s into your phone. I also went ahead and downloaded a music streaming app. I read somewhere that music can trigger memories.”

“Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me? I could be a killer for all we know.” I put the phone down and walk over to the fireplace. I stare at the blazing fire and find myself getting lost in the flames.

“I’m going to check on dinner,” he says. He grabs his phone off the bed and walks out. I hear him take the lid off the pot and set it on the counter. Frustrated, I follow him.

“Why, Griffin?” I am met with silence and then the sound of metal clanging against metal. He is stirring the soup with a ladle when I ask, “Griffin?”

He slams the ladle down on the counter and looks up at me. “Because I know what it feels like to lose everything, at least everything I thought was important.”

I don’t know what to say to his admission. To this rare glimpse into his life. He retrieves two bowls from the cabinet to his right and picks up the ladle. I watch him dump a ladle full of soup into each bowl and take them to the kitchen table. He kicks a chair out and sits down. Feeling helpless, I go to the oven and take out the biscuits I have warming. I toss them into a basket and bring them to the table along with two spoons. Mumbling, he grabs the spoon and dips it into his soup.

“I’m sorry,” I say. I don’t know what I am apologizing for. For infringing on his life? For making him feel like he has no choice but to help a pathetic stranger?

“Christ!” he yells. He grabs his bowl, a biscuit, and the Best Buy bag from the couch and escapes to the basement. I jump at the sound of the basement door slamming behind him.

I no longer have an appetite.

I need to leave. I’ve overstayed my welcome and it’s obvious that my presence is pissing him off. I have to get my memory back. I cover up my bowl with tin foil and place it in the fridge. I then go to my room, change into a pair of boyshorts and a tank top, more clothes that Griffin bought for me, and I get to work on my new phone. Like I did before, I check the news outlets and again come up empty. Growing more agitated by the second, I decide to try something new and search female names, hoping that popular girl names will trigger something. Maybe if I see a list, I can pick my name out or recognize the name of someone, a female who is important to me. Do I have a mother or a sister?

No, says a voice in my head.

The realization brings tears to my eyes. Because I know that voice isn’t lying to me. It has just told me the cold, but much-needed truth. I don’t have a mother or siblings. But I have to have someone. Someone I trust. Someone I laugh with. I can’t picture myself being content to live completely isolated, not when it is so easy for me to trust Griffin. I pull up more lists, but nothing grabs my attention until I stumble onto the J names.

Jessie.

Sitting on the couch with a folded-up piece of pizza in her hands, Jessie was talking with her mouth full and being completely disgusting. “You’re such a pig, Jessie.” A pillow came flying from across the room and hit the raven-haired beauty in the gut, which only made her laugh harder. I looked to see who had tossed the pillow and saw a brunette sitting on a breakfast bar stool and drinking beer straight from the bottle. The woman took a swig and then smiled at her friend.

The woman was me.

I drop my phone in my lap. I remembered something. Jessie. She’s my friend. I care for her. Then why can’t I remember more? Like her last name? Do we live together? Are we roommates? I will myself to recall more. I go back to search more lists, hoping that another name will shed some light. But it doesn’t and after a while I grow angry and discouraged.

I decide to take Griffin’s advice. I reach into the Verizon bag and pull out the set of ear buds that came with my phone and pop them in. I look for the music app Griffin downloaded for me. I tap the P icon, shut off the lamp and lie back in bed. I go directly to featured music since I have no idea what I like. I skip a few songs and am all set to skip another when I hear a voice that resonates with me. I close my eyes and listen to the throaty, sexy female voice. Her voice is mesmerizing and…arousing. It makes me think about the guy who has holed himself away in his basement. What would it be like to kiss him…to feel his weight on top of me, covering me?

My legs shift uncomfortably under the covers. My hand drifts over my t-shirt and beneath my cotton shorts. I’m not wearing any panties, so my fingers slip through my wet curls to my clit. I know how to swirl my fingertips over that tight bundle of nerves. My legs fall apart and I cup my breast in my other hand and pinch my nipple. My back arches and I suppress my moan by biting my lower lip…hard. I may not know my name, but I know I’ve done this before.

***

Griffin

I escape to the basement to set up the computer I purchased at Best Buy. I’m impatiently waiting for certain software installations to take place. The moment I’m given the green light, I use my iPhone as a hotspot and connect to the internet. My iPhone allowed me to surf and investigate, but the bigger screen is a lot easier on the eyes. However, after several minutes, I’m aware that my focus is shit and I can’t stop thinking about the woman upstairs. I stand and head over to the punching bag I found hanging from a bar in the ceiling. I start pounding away, praying that the activity will take the edge off.

I’m still angry and now sweaty when I finish. I steady the bag in my arms and think about the past two hours. I behaved like an idiot, throwing a tantrum and storming off with my dinner in hand, a dinner she made me. When I came home from shopping, I didn’t expect to see her up and around, looking so healthy and so goddamn right in my kitchen. She looked like she belonged there. Like she didn’t care that her mind has been erased, that neither of us know her name. I stopped breathing when she smiled at me and told me that she made me soup.

And then I showed her the things I bought her. I never saw someone act so appreciative over receiving yoga pants and toiletries. Although Miranda grew up in a single-mom household with little money, she developed expensive tastes in the last year of our marriage. Where I was perfectly content with shopping at Target, Miranda wouldn’t have been caught dead in there.

When I first met Miranda, she was going to college to be a nurse and working her way through as a waitress because she couldn’t count on her mother’s minimum wage job to support her. I was on leave, in between assignments and having a beer with my brother when Miranda waited on us and took our order. She was cute and funny and flirted with me shamelessly…right in front of my brother. Colin had to jet prematurely because he was called into work, leaving me alone. I left the bar that night with Miranda. She took me to her small apartment where we had marathon sex all night long.

We kept up that pace for the two weeks that I was home and then I was shipped off again. When I returned six months later we picked up from where we left off, in bed and fucking like animals. A month later, I proposed, not because the sex was so great, because it was, but because she was down to earth and real. She didn’t have things handed to her like other women I had met along the way. She took care of herself and that was one reason I thought our relationship would work. My job would ensure that we would go months without seeing each other and I needed to be with someone who was strong, self-sufficient and could handle being lonely from time to time.

But as time went on and my assignments became more frequent, she started to change. Her excitement at receiving my phone calls and Skypes dwindled. And when I was home, she appeared distracted, like I was intruding on her life somehow. In the beginning, when I would come home, we would usually spend most of the time in bed and catching up. We didn’t want to go out and be around other people. We wanted to be selfish and make up for lost time.

But in the last year of our three-year marriage, she wanted to go out every time I came home. To dinner, dancing, to clubs. She wanted to be around her new friends, not the ones I knew. I noticed that her wardrobe changed. Lord and Taylor and Nordstrom, not Target, were more her speed. I also noticed that she had started to wear more makeup and had begun to wax her nether regions, something I was okay with, but it did make me question why she was reinventing herself. I didn’t want to think that there was somebody else, but my mind went there, especially when I broached the topic of having kids the last time I was home. She told me that there would be time for that, that she wasn’t ready. But I knew that she wasn’t telling me the whole truth, that something else was preventing her from wanting to have children with me, something we had talked about and agreed upon before we even got married.

I shake my head and punch the bag. The sudden movement makes my chest ache a little, just beneath my scar. It’s a reminder of what happened and a warning for me not to repeat the mistake.

Don’t ever trust another woman with your heart again. It isn’t worth it.

I give the bag another round of punches before I decide that I should apologize to my nameless housemate for being such a prick. I climb the basement steps and find the living room empty. I look over and see that the door to my bedroom is closed. I go to the door and knock. After a few seconds, I knock again. Still no answer. I grow nervous. If she is angry with me, wouldn’t she at least tell me to fuck off and leave her alone? I haven’t known her for very long, but I don’t take her as one who opts for the silent treatment when ticked.

What if she has relapsed? What if her head is still cloudy from the concussion and she has fallen? What if she’s passed out in there, unconscious? Unleashing her wrath for barging in is the least of my worries and I open the door. And feel all the air from my lungs escape me. Lying there, writhing on the bed, with her eyes closed, one hand fisting the sheets, her back arched, I watch her. The faint sound of music and her increasing pants fill the room as she releases the sheets. She cups her bare breast and rolls a nipple between her fingers while her other hand goes to work beneath her shorts. I imagine her fingers spreading her folds and dipping into her tight heat. My cock grows hard as a rock. I picture my fingers there, my tongue, as I make her back bow. I want her whimpers, I want her groans, I want her to unravel because of me. She twists her nipple and then gives the same attention to the other one. Her breathing intensifies and then she explodes. Her body is shaking as she rides out each wave. Her eyes remain closed as she slowly comes back down to earth, as she takes in much-needed gulps of oxygen. Although I fight the urge not to grip my dick and join her, I can’t walk away. I just continue to stare at her, as her body recuperates from such a powerful release.

Her eyes shoot open and meet mine. The moonlight from outside allows her to see me, to see the lust in my eyes, the want, the need. What I haven’t desired in so long. She rips off her ear buds. Her chest is heaving because she is still out of breath. I have never wanted to fuck a woman so much in my life. I want to sink into her, get lost in her. I want her to erase my memories so we can both have a clean slate. But we can’t. She isn’t mine. And there is a pretty good chance that she already belongs to someone else. With my fists clenched at my sides, I turn and walk out.