My mouth fell open and toothpaste dripped out. “That’s not something I’d expect you to say.”

“What did you expect?”

“The black of your motorcycle.”

He splashed me and I flicked water back at him. For someone so serious and so bad boy-ish, he had some soft spots hiding under there.

“You used your question. It’s my turn.” I looked around the bathroom where he brought in the pajamas he knew I’d want to wear. My favorite candle he knew I’d want to use. He added bubbles and salt to my bath to relax me.

“Why do you hate waffles so much?”

He would turn down waffles every time they were available, saying he hated them with a passion. I never knew someone to have something against food like that—unless it was Brussels sprouts.

He took my leg in his hand, scrubbing starting at my foot. “When I was a kid, I refused to let my babysitters cook for me. It got so bad that I wasn’t eating what anyone else would make, so I started trying to cook in the middle of the night because I was so hungry. I attempted to make myself waffles and burned them every time. I continued to make them because it was the only thing I knew to do and ate burned waffles at one in the morning for months.

“Then my grandfather hired Miss Martha, and she really gave me the what for. But instead of forcing me to eat what she made, she taught me how to make pancakes. Little by little, I started trusting her enough to make me small items, so long as she promised me she would never make me waffles ever again. The burned taste is etched in my brain, and I will never eat another waffle again. I’d probably puke like you.” He teased me with a smile on the last part, rinsing off the loofah in the water.

“I’d be traumatized by waffles too. I also didn’t realize Martha was a long-time person in your life.”

His eyes fell to the water after finishing with my legs. I’d never seen his face get that look on it. He had a mix of sadness and introspection on his face—which he never showed either. “She took care of me like a mother. My grandfather told me about my mom’s suicide before I stopped eating, and she could see what it did to me. So, like any good mother would, Miss Martha took me as hers and raised me until I became a hellion that wouldn’t listen to her—like any son would do.”