Jesus, she was going to kill him. He was halfway amazed he wasn’t already dead yet.
What the hell was going on? That doctor hadn’t been lying when he’d said that Skye had lost the past two years. It was as if the whole seven hundred and thirty days hadn’t happened. The Skye that was sitting out there on that couch was the Skye he’d run away with—bold and forward and unable to keep her hands off of him. She was the Skye he’d been unable to stay away from, come hell or high water.
Gone was the quiet, distant woman who didn’t care how much he hated this town, didn’t want to share a pizza with him—didn’t want him. The Skye on the couch had no clue that other Skye had taken over the past two years of her life.
She didn’t remember falling out of love with him.
She still thought she loved him.
And she seemed hell-bound to prove it.
What was he supposed to do here? The jerk move would be to just start sleeping with her. But the doctor seemed to think she’d start to recover some of her memories and once she did—once she remembered the divorce papers he’d shoved into his glove box—she’d accuse him of taking advantage of her while she was confused.
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