He ducked into the cabin, leaving the door open. She could hear him moving as she perched on the edge of a padded bench, taking her bearings. The skinny gray kitten watched anxiously from the shadow of the cabin wall.
“Do you have something I can give the cat?” she called through the open door.
“I’ll take care of it.” Jack’s voice was patient. Amused. “You like fish?”
“Sure. I used to live on tuna fish.”Cats ate tuna, right?“Well, that and ramen noodles.”
“No tuna. Bluefish or Spanish mackerel.”
“I’ve never had either one. I’m from Chicago, remember?”
“Chicago’s on a lake.”
“Sure. Ask me about whitefish. Or smelt. Oh, hey, wait. Did you catch the fish yourself?”
“Not today. It’s in the freezer.”
“You did catch it. That’s so cool.”
“Until you fry it,” he said. “Then it’s hot.”
Wow. Chief Law-and-Order Rossi had actually made another joke. And he was cooking her dinner. She wasn’t sure which impressed her more.
She’d never bought into traditional dating models, the exchange of dinner-and-a-movie for sex. But something about Jack preparing her food satisfied her on a deep, biological level. Like he’d bagged a woolly mammoth and dragged it back to the cave. Her DNA wanted to have his babies.
Condoms, she thought suddenly, and looked around for her purse.
Jack emerged on deck holding a wine bottle. He’d taken off his uniform shirt, revealing a thin-ribbed sleeveless undershirt. A wife-beater, her brother Noah would call it, and even though Lauren scolded him over the term, it conjured images, dangerous, beautiful, male. Marlon Brando inA Streetcar Named Desire, Sylvester Stallone inRocky, Channing Tatum in, well, anything. The intimacy of Jack’s undress—his broad, smooth, muscled shoulders, the dark tufts of hair under his arms—struck her like a blow. She opened her mouth to breathe.
He handed her a thick-stemmed wineglass. “Pinot grigio okay?”
She pulled herself together. “You’ve obviously never been to a graduate student party. It’s not box wine in a red plastic cup, but I can adjust.” She watched him pour. “None for you?”
“I’ll have a beer with dinner.”
Her brows twitched together. “On duty?”
He set the wine bottle beside her. “I like to keep a clear head in the kitchen.”
Maybe that was it, she thought as he returned to the galley. She wasn’t his therapist, required to read deeper significance into every word or gesture. She didn’t have to take care of him or fix him. He wasn’t drinking to relieve stress, he wasn’t drinking alone, he obviously was in excellent health, and his work clearly wasn’t suffering. So he didn’t have a drinking problem.
She smiled to herself. Control issues, maybe, but not a drinking problem.
The air was soft and humid, scented with salt and diesel. A warm breeze slid over her bare legs. Cautiously, she sipped the crisp white wine, settling back against the bench seat, more relaxed than she had felt in months. Years.
A year ago, a man like Jack, an Italian Catholic cop with his black-and-white view of the world and rigid self-discipline, would have been completely outside her experience. Outside her comfort zone. But now...
Lulled by the lap of the water and Jack’s presence a few feet away, her hypervigilance eased. As if her body recognized she was safe. If danger threatened, Jack could deal with it. She didn’t have to be the hero when he was around. Or a victim. She could just sit here and breathe. Be. Be herself.
Whoever she was anymore.
He came on deck, carrying two plates. “I figured we’d eat out here. Unless you want air-conditioning.”
“Out here is perfect,” she answered honestly.
She accepted a plate. After an attack, she usually didn’t have much appetite. Would Jack be offended if she shared part of her dinner with the cat?
Before she could ask, Jack set his food on the small table and picked a piece of fish from his plate. He approached the trap. The kitten flinched from his heavy footsteps and then stuck its skinny neck out, nose twitching, obviously drawn to the scent of food. Its pink mouth yawned in a silent mew.
