Page 58 of Promise Me

I can’t quite place the look on her face. Defeat, maybe? Or maybe it’s more of what I imagine someone who is attempting to put on a brave face would look like.

Is she worried about being here alone again?

She was here by herself when I found her, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t worried.

The rest of my day plays out quickly in my head: shower, dress, eat lunch at the bar, and then go back to my apartment to do whatever my mind comes up with.

Another typical day in the life of Hudson Asher.

So, of course, I do what every man in my shoes would do.

“You know what? I think I’ll stay.”

Her head snaps up, and the way her face lights up tells me I made the right choice.

“Oh, yay. You’re going to love these bars.”

Oh, I know I will. They are the best thing she makes.

I’ll be sure to tell her the truth this time.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

SADIE

“Do you think we made too many?” I ask, taking a step back from the counter. I place my hands on my hips and look at our end product.

Hudson, too, steps back, his elbow brushing mine to mimic my stance as he looks at the counter with me.

“You know, I think the fact we made enough for us to live off these for a few months might make the answer to your questionyes, yes we did.”

“Hmmm. I was sure the third batch would bring something back to my memory.”

It’s not a lie. I did feel something while we were baking. It just wasn’t what I thought it would be.

“Nothing worked?”

I shake my head and then grin at him, letting a small laugh loose.

“What?”

“You still have powdered sugar everywhere.”

I reach up to swipe some off his cheek. I had high hopes that I’d remember something through baking, but all I felt was happyand relaxed, as if I never hit my head and have three years unaccounted for. My company in the kitchen was no doubt the reason for that.

Hudson listened carefully to me, and he did everything he was told, cracking jokes or reminding me of moments he saw me baking with my mom as a kid.

This afternoon just felt … good.

I like that Hudson was here with me.

“It’s like you’ve never baked before,” I say and start to put the endless buffet of lemon bars into boxes. “Should we donate these?”

“Or you could sell them,” he says coolly. “I’m sure if you saved them for tomorrow, people would still come rushing in to buy them, even if that’s all you have.”

I pause. It makes perfect sense. I own a bakery, for crying out loud. I should do it.

It just feels wrong to sell them. It’s almost like the idea of making money off these would ruin the joy they gave me. Giving them away, on the other hand—that makes me smile.

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