“Don’t get too excited,” she quipped, busying herself by wiping down the counter. “Sauce from a jar, frozen meatballs, premade salad, and thankfully some sliced sourdough made into garlic bread.”
“Maren, I am grateful,” he said. “This is the closest I’ve come to a home-cooked meal in a very long time.”
She remembered his description of his family. “Now, I know that’s not true. I’m sure you go to your parents’ quite often for a home-cooked meal.”
He held up his hands. “True. But not the same thing. Having your mother cook for you as opposed to an unrelated, beautiful woman—” He shook his head. “Not the same thing at all.”
He thought she was beautiful.
Heat infused her cheeks and a thrill raced down her spine at his implication that there was more to this meal, to their time together, than professional partnership.
Ridiculous.
Turning away, she took the seasoned sourdough slices out of the oven and slid them onto a large platter. Picking up the platter, she handed it to him. “Did you find everything you needed at the store?”
He put his hands on the platter, but didn’t immediately take it from her. His gaze searched her face. She held steady, not about to let on how he affected her, yet she couldn’t deny the zing of attraction arcing between them.
He gave a gentle tug on the platter. “I did, thank you.”
Releasing her hold, she turned away and resisted the urge to fan herself. Why did she feel flushed?
Briskly, she served up two plates of spaghetti and carried them to the table where she’d arranged two place settings across from each other. No sitting side by side. That would be too weird. Too intimate.
“I have to say your place isn’t quite what I expected.” He lifted the pitcher of water and filled both their glasses.
She brought over the salad bowl and two smaller plates.
Taking her seat, she said, “I’m almost afraid to ask, but what did you expect?”
He held her gaze. “Functional. With no personality.”
Her defenses rose and she tucked in her chin, her eyebrows rising so high she probably thought they blended in with her hairline. “Excuse me?”
The sides of his mouth lifted in a teasing smile. “Seriously. I expected the practical, but I didn’t expect the whimsy. When you’re on the job, there’s very little whimsy evident.”
Mulling over his words, she dished out the salad. There had been a time in her life when she’d been much more whimsical. Before her parents’ deaths. Before Opal became addicted to drugs. Before her uncle died. While the repeated blows had tried to knock her down, she was still fighting to stand tall. “A girl’s got to have a little mystery.”
His low chuckle pleased her. Way more than it should. Time to change the subject. “Tell me more about your family.”
One of his chestnut eyebrows lifted.
She had the feeling he knew exactly what she was doing. As long as he was talking, she didn’t have to. Giving him a specific topic would keep the focus off the troubling plight of her sister. And off Maren. She didn’t like being the focus of attention. Plus, she liked hearing about his big family. So different from hers.
For the next hour, while they ate, he regaled her with childhood exploits of his and his siblings.
“It all sounds so wonderful and too good to be true.” But he was the living proof that some families were healthy and functional. Unlike hers.
“Even before our parents were killed,” she admitted, “I remember the stilted dinners with the four of us. The quiet evenings spent reading, or listening to my mother rehearse her lectures while our dad was engrossed in his research.”
“Both of your parents were academics?”
“They were,” she said. “My father was a professor of theology, and my mother taught social sciences.” A path neither she nor Opal had followed.
“I’m so sorry you lost them.”
“They weren’t lost. They were killed,” she said, an edge to her voice she couldn’t contain. “Most likely by somebody driving drunk. And I will never have closure.”
The sympathy in his eyes had her heart quaking.
