“Coconut cake.”
“From Publix?”
He frowned. “No. Homemade.”
Her mouth fell open, and she was powerless to close it for a moment. He really had gone to some trouble. “You made a cake?”
“Wife’s recipe.” His perma-scowl seemed to relax. “Don’t think men can bake?”
She went with straight-up honesty because she was still too shocked to come up with anything else. “I know men can bake, but I didn’t take you for a baker.”
He snorted, clearly amused. He gave Beau a scratch on the head, then stood, gathered the dishes, and went inside.
She sat there, pondering the enigma she’d just had dinner with. He obviously wanted company, or he wouldn’t have asked her. But he didn’t act like he wanted company. Not much, anyway.
But then, he’d made a cake. Would he have made that if she wasn’t coming over? She didn’t know what to make of it. Unless Brick was just using her to get to Beau.
The thought made her smile.
When Brick returned, he had two plates of cake, each with a clean fork on it. He set one in front of her, then sat down with his.
The slice of cake looked and smelled delicious. Two layers of vanilla cake covered with snowy white frosting, heavily dusted in coconut flakes. She took a bite. The cake was soft and super moist, fragrant with coconut, the icing sweet but not overly so. Even the coconut tasted fresh.
She pointed at the cake with her fork. “This isgood.”
“Surprised?”
“Yes. Sorry, but I am. Pleasantly.” She smiled. He looked happy that he’d thrown her. She wondered how far that would get her and decided to test the waters. “You don’t talk much. Why not?”
He shrugged. “Not much to say, I guess.”
“Why did you invite me over for dinner if you didn’t have anything to talk about?”
He went quiet, seemingly stumped for an answer.
“Or was it really Beau’s company you wanted?”
That got him to smile. “I’ve been alone too long maybe.”
“That can be really hard. My husband passed away three years ago. Some days are close to fine. Others, it’s like I just came home from the funeral.”
Brick nodded. “My wife’s been gone a bit longer. Kids thought I should move here. Make friends.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
He glanced at her and shook his head.
She felt like they’d broached new ground. “Talking more would probably help. Also, maybe not staring at people like you’re sizing them up for a body bag would be good.”
He huffed out a short, quick laugh. “My son tells me I have a mean resting face.”
“You do.” Her turn to shrug. “Just being honest. But so do a lot of people, so it’s not like you’re the only one.”
“Don’t know how to fix that. My face is my face.”
“You could practice.”
“What?” He frowned. “Smiling? Don’t want to look like a dang fool.”
