Jack crouched, poking the fish through the cage. “Here you go, pal.”
The rough murmur of his voice stroked Lauren’s nerves inside and out. Creeping to the wire, the tabby began to bolt the food, shoulders hunched, eyes cocked for danger.
“That’s the way.” Jack stuck a finger through the wire, ruffling the fur on the kitten’s head.
Everything in Lauren melted and yearned, swamped in a wave of awareness. She was suddenly, excruciatingly conscious of Jack. The size of his hands, the long muscles of his thighs, the deeply tanned skin at the back of his neck.
He straightened and met her gaze. His eyes went dark.
Her blood drummed in her ears.Say something, she ordered herself.Anything.
Touch me. Pet me.
“How’s the fish?” he asked.
“Um.” Were they just going to ignore it, that moment of humming awareness? She swallowed and glanced at her plate. Flaky white fish. Green salad. A roll. “It looks delicious. Are you this good at everything?”
Dark laughter gleamed in his eyes. But all he said was, “Not much to cooking fish. A little butter, a little salt and pepper.”
She kept trying to figure him out, and he kept eluding her neat definitions.A Manly Man who was comfortable in the kitchen?“I don’t know a lot of guys who cook. Did you learn from your father?”
“Yeah. Pop always cooked Saturday night dinner. Pork chops. Pasta. Said it relaxed him.” Jack sat with his plate on his lap. “I was probably twelve or fourteen before I figured out he did it to give Ma a break.”
“That’s so nice.”
“Yeah.” This time, she noticed, he did not object to her choice of the word. “Only on Saturdays, though. The rest of the week, Ma ruled in the kitchen.”
Lauren dug into the fish. “My parents were the same. Very traditional gender roles.”
“That must have made it tough on your mom.”
“No, she loved fussing over Dad. That’s all she ever wanted.”
“Hard when he died, I mean.”
Yes. Her throat closed. She stared down blindly at her plate without answering.
“Who stepped into his role?” Jack asked. “You?”
Lauren swallowed. “Somebody had to take care of things.”
“You were a kid, though, right?”
“Nineteen.”
“So who took care of you?”
Nobody. She shook her head. “I don’t need anybody to take care of me.”
“Okay.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted out of habit. Out of instinct. Because that’s what she always said. That’s all she allowed herself to be.
He looked at her, his black eyes unreadable. “So why are you here?”
Her face, her whole body, flamed. She raised her chin and glared. “Because I want...”
You. I want you.
