She capitulated quickly. “True. Good point.”
“If you see anyone in town behaving oddly, just let me know, okay?”
She nodded as she tucked the card away. “I’ll keep watch,” she promised, then her expression shifted, becoming almost maternal as she looked between Charles and me. “And just so we’re clear—fake boyfriend or not, you hurt him, I’ll make sure you regret it.”
ELEVEN
CHARLES
The smell of garlic and red wine filled my kitchen as I pulled the braised ribs from the oven, and for the first time in months, I felt that deep satisfaction that only came from cooking for someone who would appreciate it. Not that I didn’t love baking for my customers—I did—but there was something different about preparing a meal in your own kitchen, using your own dishes, for someone sitting at your own table.
Someone who’d already complimented the appetizer three times, which had been a simple home-baked ciabatta with olive oil and an herb mix. The man was easy to please, it seemed.
“This smells incredible,” Eamon said from behind me, and I jumped slightly. I hadn’t heard him approach, but there he was, standing close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body. “Need any help?”
“Can you grab the wine from the counter and refill our glasses?” I tried to ignore the way his proximity made my pulse quicken. “Everything else is ready.”
He moved with surprising grace for such a big man,collecting the bottle and glasses while I plated our food. The domesticity of it hit me square in the chest—this easy rhythm we’d fallen into, like we’d done this a hundred times before instead of this being only our second shared meal.
“So tell me something about yourself,” I said once we were seated, raising my wine glass. “Something not in your official detective biography.”
Eamon paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, a flicker of something—panic?—crossing his features before he recovered. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. Hobbies? Guilty pleasures? Weird habits that would make me question living with you?” I grinned to take the sting out of the last part, but his expression grew thoughtful.
“I love to dance,” he said finally, so quietly I almost missed it.
I blinked. Of all the things I’d expected him to say—working out, watching sports, restoring classic cars—dancing hadn’t even made the list. “Really?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” But he was smiling now, that real smile I was starting to treasure. “What, you don’t think I have rhythm?”
“It’s not that.” I gestured at him with my fork. “You’re a cop, and you’re this big, intimidating guy who swears like a sailor. Dancing seems…”
“Not masculine enough?” There was a challenge in his voice, but it was playful rather than defensive.
“No, that’s not what I meant at all. I think it’s wonderful. I just wouldn’t have guessed.” I took a sip of wine, studying his face. “What kind of dancing?”
“All kinds. Ballroom, Latin, even some Irish traditional dances.” His accent slipped slightly on the last words, that rolling lilt I’d noticed earlier creeping back in. Had helived in Ireland for a while? Or maybe he’d been born there and had emigrated? It would explain the occasional slip in accent and the distinct British expressions he used from time to time. “My ma used to say I had music in my bones.”
The way he said “ma” instead of “mom” strengthened my suspicion that he had Irish roots. “She taught you?”
“Aye, she—” He caught himself, cleared his throat. “Yeah, she did. In our kitchen, after dinner. Da would play his fiddle and Ma would show me the steps.” His expression grew distant, almost wistful. “Some of my best memories.”
“That’s beautiful,” I said softly, and meant it. The image of a young Eamon dancing with his mother in a cozy kitchen felt so at odds with the tough exterior he presented to the world, but somehow it made perfect sense. “Do you still dance?”
He shrugged, suddenly looking embarrassed. “Not often. I mean, I dance in clubs, but that’s more grinding than anything else.”
“Nothing wrong with some good grinding…”
“No, but it’s not the same.”
“I would love to see you dance sometime. I bet you’re amazing.”
The smile he gave me was soft and grateful, and I had to resist the urge to reach across the table and touch his hand. Instead, I took another bite of the ribs, savoring the rich, full taste. Making these took a little time, but it was so worth the effort. And the mashed potatoes had come out great as well, fluffy and creamy.
“What about you?” he asked. “Any hidden talents I should know about?”
“I read romance novels,” I blurted out, then immediately felt heat flood my cheeks. “Like, really steamyones. The kind with shirtless guys on the covers and scenes that would make your grandmother clutch her pearls.”
