He grinned and raised his eyebrows. “Why? We are dating, after all.”
She blushed but held his gaze. “We’re just playing pretend,” she murmured.
He shrugged, as if to say, “Suit yourself,” and ducked back into the ship’s cabin. “Dinner’s getting cold.”
She followed him inside and smiled when she saw the table wedged in between a stack of his tackle gear, as well as a pile of shoes and shirts topped with a book on knot tying. He’d laid a red-and-white-checked tablecloth over the small round table and lit a candle inside one of those red glass jars she always saw at Italian restaurants.
“This is…romantic.” She felt uneasy. There was no one here watching them, taking their picture. Who was this for?
Flynn bit his lip. She had never seen him look bashful before. She hadn’t thought it an emotion he was capable of feeling. “It’s nothing.”
She didn’t push him on the issue, taking it at face value as something nice he’d done for her, tidying up the space and trying to make it look presentable. Instead, she gave him a wan smile, pulled up a stool, and looked at the asparagus and fresh fish on her plate.
Flynn leaned against the galley countertop, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited for her to take a bite, staring at her like a puppy waiting for its dinner. She hardly expected Flynn to be a culinary expert. But he looked so hopeful. No matter what, she would say it was good.
But when she took a bite, she was surprised to find the fish was flavorful, the marinade of lemon and fresh spices sweeping over her tongue and its tart, acidic taste blending perfectly with the delicate breadcrumbs he’d topped it with. “This is delicious!”
A broad grin, one far more innocent than his usual roguish smile, spread across his face. “You like it?”
“It’s superb, so much better than I was expecting.” She picked up her napkin and held it to her face. “Shoot, I didn’t mean—”
He waved her off, sitting down and digging into his own plate. “It’s okay. You didn’t think I could cook, did you?”
She grimaced and wrinkled her nose. “No, not really. I thought that—”
“That I’m a consummate bachelor who has a personal chef in his employ.”
She swallowed the bite she’d just taken in a gulp, surprised by his candid response. “Well, yes, exactly.”
“I’ll admit, I rarely have time for cooking these days. I still can’t make a decent cup of coffee. It’s a lot of work to keep all the dames at my door happy. And all the Scotch in Hollywood isn’t going to drink itself.” He winked at her. There was the Flynn Banks she knew. “But I love it. Used to escape to the kitchens as a kid every chance I got.”
She tapped her napkin to her mouth, self-conscious of crumbs that might have strayed onto her face. “Kitchens?”
Now it was his turn to grimace. “Yes, my father was a member of the British aristocracy, and I grew up on one of those dreadful crumbling estates.”
“Like a castle?” She regretted it the instant she said it. She sounded like a child, wide-eyed at the prospect of a fairy tale.
He simply chuckled. “Less castle, more haunted house.” Her heart panged at the note of bitterness in his voice. “It wasn’t the happiest home, and when my father was in one of his moods, I would hide in the kitchens, where our cook would let me observe her work. By the time I left for Eton, I knew how to make everything from poached eggs to croquembouche. Used to entertain my mates at Oxford by sneaking into the kitchens and whipping them up a hot meal after a long night at the pub. I like feeling useful.”
She rubbed at a small tear in the tablecloth. “My sister and I, we’re like that too. I’m the eldest, so I’ve always taken care of her.” Being useful and ensuring that Judy was safe and dry and happy made Livvy feel less guilty. “But lately, she’s been doing the cooking while I’ve been at the studio.”
“That must be nice. To have someone to look after who also looks after you.” He said it so wistfully. Could it be possible? Was Flynn Banks lonely? The idea was laughable. And yet…something in his eyes once again gave him away.
“It is, mostly. Though she really shouldn’t need to look after me. I’m the one who’s meant to take care of her. Sometimes that’s stressful though.”
He set a glass of white wine in front of her, and she sipped it gingerly. She needed to keep her wits about her. “How so?”
“I love Judy. I’d do anything for her. But being responsible for someone means you’re always worried. Will she be safe? Will she have enough to eat? It’s hard not to feel like a mother hen.”
Flynn chuckled. “How old is your sister?”
“Eighteen, but she’ll always be a baby to me.”
“Maybe you need to let that go.”
The words sucked all the air from the room. It was true. Sometimes Livvy wanted to let go so much it hurt. But how could she?
“We’re all each other has. If I don’t take care of her, who will?”
