I consider my answer carefully. “I grew up in a house where people talked. About everything, all the time. Silence usually meant something was wrong.”
He studies me for a moment, head tilted slightly. “Nothing is wrong. I’m simply... observing.”
Observing me, he means.
Franklin returns to clear our soup bowls, replacing them with the main course. Perfectly seared salmon on a bed of greens, arranged with artistic precision. He serves us without a word, then disappears again like a ghost. I’ve never been so grateful for an interruption in my life.
“Tell me about this house where people talked,” Caleb says once we’re alone again. It’s the first thing he’s said that invites an actual response.
“My grandmother’s farmhouse,” I reply, surprised by his interest. “Nothing like this. Small, always a bit drafty. Parts of it were over a hundred years old. But it was home.”
“You grew up there?”
I nod, cutting a small piece of salmon. “From the time I was six. After my mother left.”
His eyes sharpen at that. “Left?”
“She wasn’t... equipped for motherhood.” I keep my tone neutral, the way I always do when discussing my mother. “She dropped me with her mother, my grandmother Bea, for what was supposed to be a weekend. It turned into forever.”
“And your father?”
“Never in the picture.” I shrug slightly. “It was just Bea and me.”
Something passes across his face too quickly to read. “And the farm?”
“Small but sustainable. We grew enough to sell at local markets, kept some livestock. Nothing fancy, but it was enough.” I take a bite of salmon, the flavors momentarily distracting me. “Bea could make anything grow. She had this way with plants. They just responded to her. Like they wanted to please her.”
The corner of his mouth twitches again. “And you?”
“I’m decent with plants. Better with engines.” At his raised eyebrow, I explain, “Farm equipment breaks down. A lot. Whenyou can’t afford to call someone every time, you learn to fix things yourself.”
He nods, taking a sip of his wine. His eyes never leave my face. “What happened to the farm?”
The question lands like a stone in still water. I set down my fork carefully.
“Cancer happened,” I say simply. “Pancreatic. By the time they caught it, there wasn’t much they could do. Six months from diagnosis to...” I swallow hard. “The medical bills took everything. I tried to keep up with the mortgage after she was gone, but without her income, plus what I’d spent during her illness... I lost it.” The admission still burns. “The foreclosure was finalized four months ago.”
“And since then?”
“I’ve been...” I hesitate, wondering how honest to be. But what’s the point in hiding it? My address on the application is a temporary housing facility. He runs a security company. It’s not hard to connect the dots. “I’ve been staying with friends when possible. A shelter for a while. The address on my application is a transitional housing program. I have two weeks left there before I have to move on.”
He’s completely still now, watching me with an intensity that should be uncomfortable but somehow isn’t. “You’ve been homeless.”
“Not exactly.” I lift my chin slightly. “I’ve always had somewhere to sleep. Just not anywhere permanent. I spent most of my money trying to keep my grandmother comfortable. I wanted to make sure her last months were as good as they could be.”
Something shifts in his expression, a softening around the eyes that’s gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
“Your loyalty is admirable.”
“It’s not loyalty when it’s someone you love,” I reply. “It’s just... what you do.”
He falls silent again, continuing to eat while watching me with that unnerving focus. I wonder what he’s thinking, what he sees when he looks at me. A charity case? A risk? Someone too desperate to be trusted?
“The yellow dress,” he says suddenly. “Is it the only one you own?”
The question stings more than it should.
“Yes,” I admit, refusing to be embarrassed. “I sold most of my clothes when I lost the farm. Kept what I could carry.”
