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“You’re a guy.”
“Guys read.”
“But they’re romance.”
He shrugged. “I read everything. And I think you do, too.” He nodded at her arms as she folded them over her chest again.
“Interesting,” she said quietly.
“What’s your favorite book?”
“Well, that’s like asking me who my favorite kid is.” She rolled her eyes.
“And who is that?”
Marlowe took his glass, but he shook his head. “Can I just get some water?”
“Of course.”
She leaned over to set his whiskey glass in the sink and grabbed a Collins glass and filled it with ice. She moved with ease, as if she had been doing the job long enough to do it in her sleep. Cass could watch her all night.
“My favorite kid is Waylen,” she answered, “and my favorite book is Peter Pan.”
“And would I find either of those names in your tattoos?”
She grinned and ducked her chin, but she nodded.
“Peter Pan,” he repeated. “That’s cool.”
“And you’ve read it?”
“Are you going to insist on challenging me on everything?”
“Sorry.” She held her hands up in surrender, both snickering a bit.
“Who’s Waylen?”
“My son.” She announced it unapologetically, because there was no one more important in her life than her son.
“How old?”
“Eleven. Very soon to be twelve.”
“Nice.” Cass nodded. “My favorite kid is Lettie Coulter.”
“Who’s that?”
“My niece. She’s my little brother’s kid.”
Cass slipped his phone from his pocket and pulled up a picture of the three-month-old baby. He smiled proudly as he turned the phone to show it to Marlowe.
“Adorable.” She nodded. “Do you not have kids, or do you have kids but just like her better?”
The laugh that rumbled out of him surprised him. “I don’t have kids.”
“Don’t want kids?”
“I do. Just haven’t found the one.”
