Page 42 of Goode Tidings

"Is that so bad?"

"No." Her head shakes vehemently, the ends of her brown hair swishing over the skin left bare by her v-neck sweater. "It's just unexpected."

"Why?" I adjust myself in the seat across from her. It's too small for me, the handles at an awkward height for my forearms. I end up leaning my arms on the table.

"Because we're not on a date."

"A man can only treat a woman appropriately when they're on a date?"

Eden frowns. "I guess not."

A server appears at our table. I don't recall seeing her before, but she's staring at us with suppressed mirth and knowing eyes. "Thanks for that show," she says.

Eden plays it off. "You're welcome. We charge for encores."

How does Eden do it? Casually make a joke with a stranger without missing a beat. It's not something I'm capable of.

The server laughs. We order burgers and fries, and two long-neck bottles of light beer.

"To stakeouts," Eden says, lifting her bottle for a toast after it's delivered.

I clink the bottoms of our bottles together. "I'm curious about something."

Eden takes a sip and points her bottle at me. "I'm curious about a lot of things, too, Callum."

I know what she's curious about, and I'm not looking forward to that conversation. Overlooking her comment, I ask the question that's been poking at me for days. "Why do you agree with my mom? Why do you say men aren't worth the hassle?"

Eden squints at me. "That's not what I thought you were going to start with."

Yeah, me neither. But for some reason I cannot comprehend, that is what's vexing me most.

I grip my bottle, tapping out a rhythm with my finger. "I'm full of surprises."

Eden leans forward, her elbows resting on the table. Her sweater falls open and, yes, I want to lower my gaze. But I don't. Not only because I'm a gentleman, but because I've just asked why she thinks men aren't worth the hassle. I'm not trying to become one of her reasons.

She says, "It's not Justin making me say men aren't worth the hassle, if that's what you're thinking."

I wasn't thinking about much beyond constructing a mental list of who in Eden's history needs a reminder of how to act right.

Eden points a painted nail halfway across the table. "Don't you ever, ever tell anybody what I'm about to tell you."

I pause with the bottle at my mouth. Apprehension tightens the muscles in my neck. It's been a long time since I've felt a rush of protectiveness like this, but here it is now, hot and robust and coursing through me. Not just for Eden, because that wouldn't make any sense. Surely it's for all womankind. To cover up my intense feeling, I shrug and ask, "Who would I tell? I'm a hermit."

A little smile plays at the corner of Eden's mouth. She's quiet for a few seconds, then says, "I briefly dated Oliver's soccer coach. When his season was over." Her words tumble out on top of each other, like the confession has been building up inside of her for so long and she can't wait to finally have it off her chest.

My bottle meets the table as the dread in my stomach grows heavier. "Why is that a secret?"

"He was a lot younger than me."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-four."

"And he was?"

"Twenty-five."

I try to control my imagination, I really do, but my mind goes haywire. I know what he wanted her for. I know why she thinks men are a hassle. My hands form fists, but my mouth stays silent. I'm seething in a way I cannot justify. Or explain.