10

EVE DIDN’T WANT BRENT to walk her to the door—and walk away. Yes, she had a top-notch security system . . . but after tonight’s scare it would be nice to have company for an hour or two.

One man in particular.

Could she entice him to stay?

As they traversed the dark streets, the silence broken only by the hum of tires against pavement, Eve peeked at the man behind the wheel.

His jaw was hard, his brow furrowed—and his frequent glances in the rearview mirror suggested he was on high alert.

The man oozed confidence and competence.

No wonder she always felt safe in his presence.

And feeling safe was a top priority tonight.

But that’s not the main reason you want him to stay, Eve.

She exhaled. Okay, fine. She could admit the truth. Yes, she liked Brent Lange.

A lot.

But who wouldn’t? What was not to like? The man was smart, conscientious, reeked of integrity, had a solid reputation among his peers—and was one hunk of handsome, appealing masculinity.

The latter attribute was on full display tonight, thanks to a snug T-shirt that showed off his broad chest and impressive biceps, plus a pair of broken-in jeans that hugged his lean hips and muscular legs.

No wonder her already elevated adrenaline had gone off the charts when he’d stepped out of his Taurus in the parking lot.

She shifted in the seat and tugged at the neckline of her suddenly too-tight mock turtleneck.

Cate’s intel suggested Brent didn’t have any steady female companionship—and the fact he’d been reading on a typical date night appeared to support that conclusion.

That didn’t mean he’d be interested in getting to know her, however. Hadn’t he turned down her last offer to stay awhile on the night she’d found the fake bomb?

But what did she have to lose by trying again?

“Home sweet home.” He pulled into her cul-de-sac and guided the car toward her house.

It was now or never.

Taking a deep breath, she strove for a nonchalant tone. “I know it’s getting late—and you have your book waiting for you—but can I offer you a drink? And maybe dessert? I don’t make killer baklava like Grace does, but my carrot cake is a family favorite.”

Thank goodness her restlessness had compelled her to whip one up today in between stages of working on the floor, or all she would have been able to offer was yogurt.

A dessert unlikely to persuade anyone to hang around.

The seconds dragged by as he swung into her driveway and set the brake.

Message received.

Inviting him in had been a bad idea.

She needed to lighten up the atmosphere and try to salvage this awkward situation.

“On the other hand, if you do stay I may put you to work helping me refinish floors.” She forced up the corners of her mouth. “For someone who’s not into DIY, that wouldn’t be the best—”

“I love carrot cake.”

The rest of her sentence died in her throat.

He angled toward her, but his shadowed face was impossible to read. “I won’t be able to stay long, though. I’m ushering at the early service tomorrow morning. But I can’t pass up carrot cake.”

The encouraging news that Brent was a churchgoer registered at a peripheral level—but it was the end of the sentence that captured her attention.

He was staying!

She tried to contain her elation. “Great. And I totally understand about the early service. I’m used to getting up before dawn for my show, so I always go then too.”

May as well let him know church was part of her regular schedule too. Shared beliefs and interests were the building blocks of relationships, after all.

In case that was where they were headed.

“Good to know we’re on the same page.”

The dimness in the car masked his features, but she had the distinct feeling he was talking about more than their Sunday church habits.

“Uh-huh.”

Real articulate, Eve.

At least he couldn’t see her eye roll in the darkness.

“I’ll get your door.” He circled around the hood, then followed her to the front porch and waited while she fitted the key into the lock.

Or tried to.

It took three fumbling attempts to insert the thing.

Sheesh.

You’d think she’d never invited a man into her home.

Once the door swung open, he joined her in the foyer, her security system beeping in the background.

“Follow me to the kitchen and I’ll shut that off. As you can see”—she waved a hand toward the empty living room—“this remains a work in progress. But I should finish the floors in a week or so.”

She continued to the back of the house, deactivated the alarm, and dropped her purse and notes on the counter. “I have coffee, tea, Diet Sprite, and mango iced tea.”

“Mango iced tea?” The corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement. “That’s not an option I often get.”

“It’s Grace’s favorite. I always keep a few bottles on hand. Want to try it?”

“No thanks. That’s too exotic for my tastes. Coffee is fine.”

“Full strength or decaf?”

“The higher the octane, the better. What do you prefer?”

“This late at night I drink herbal tea.”

“In that case, don’t bother with the coffee. I’ll have a soda.”

“It’s no bother. I’ve got a one-cup brewer. But won’t full-strength java keep you awake all night?” She pulled out the bag of coffee and measured a generous portion into the filter.

“Unless I guzzle a pot of caffeine, it doesn’t affect my shut-eye. One cup won’t make a dent.”

“I wish the same was true for me. Have a seat.” She indicated the stools at the island and filled two mugs with water. “I’ll have this ready fast.”

But he didn’t sit.

Instead, he strolled around the island—closer to her. “Can I help?”

“Um . . .” The subtle, distinctive scent of his aftershave tickled her nose—and turned her brain to mush. “All I have to do is c-cut the cake.”

He grinned, either unaware of her discomfiture . . . or enjoying it. “Can I lick the icing off the knife? That will take me back to my childhood.”

As the image of him engaged in that activity flashed through her mind, her heart lurched.

“Uh . . . s-sure.” She cleared her throat and backed away, toward the fridge.

Thank heaven he didn’t follow.

Once there, she set their mugs on the counter, opened the door, and stuck her face in as far as she could. If she was lucky, the chilly air would chase the warmth from her cheeks.

The cake was front and center among the meager items on her shelves—but he couldn’t see that from where he was standing—so she lingered on the pretense of moving the contents around to reach their dessert.

Too bad she couldn’t further stretch out the retrieval, but if she dawdled too long he’d get suspicious.

Pasting on a smile that was a tad too cheery, she withdrew the cake and held it out for him to inspect. “Ta-da.”

The confection in her hands distracted him long enough for her to get her act back together.

Sort of.

“Wow.” He ogled the swirls of cream cheese icing. “That looks fabulous.”

“It’s my specialty—after moussaka.” She deposited it on the counter and cut a generous slice for him and a smaller one for her. “Why don’t you take these over to the table while I get the beverages going?”

“Don’t I get a crack at the knife?”

Her heart missed a beat. “Uh . . . sure.” She held it out.

“This will be a treat.” He took it from her, his lean fingers brushing her hand.

The treat was all hers as she watched him lick the blade clean.

“Thank you.” He handed her the knife back, his gaze locking with hers. Warming. Igniting.

Oh man.

This was bad.

Very bad.

She never got hot and bothered over a man she barely knew.

Change the subject, Eve.

Right.

“There are, uh, forks in the drawer beside the sink, and napkins in the cabinet above.”

“Got it.” He picked up the plates and retrieved the items she mentioned while she put her water in the microwave and poured his into the coffeemaker. “I’m going to enjoy every bite of this. Homemade cake isn’t on my menu very often these days.”

“Not a baker, huh?”

“Not a chef, period. I don’t have the time—or the inclination—for the culinary arts. I’m more in Cate’s camp—eating is my specialty.”

“I don’t dally in the kitchen, either. If I have any openings in my schedule, I’d rather bike or spin. But I know all the basics.”

He inspected the cake. “This is way beyond the basics.”

“I do excel at a few items.”

She swiveled away and fiddled with the coffeemaker. While she’d shared pieces of her history with him over the past eight days, he’d told her nothing about his background other than a brief reference to his grandparents. Yet he had mentioned his childhood a few minutes ago. Would he be willing to offer her a few tidbits about his growing-up years tonight?

Why not test the waters?

“So did licking the knife bring back happy memories from your childhood?” She kept her tone casual and conversational.

Behind her, the thump of ceramic against wood told her he’d deposited their plates on the table.

Several silent seconds ticked by.

Shoot.

Introducing a potentially sensitive subject had been a bad call.

Fix this, Eve, or he’s going to leave as soon as he scarfs down his cake. Like he did last time, after the subject of his grandparents came up.

“Um . . . do you want cream or sugar?”

Of course he didn’t. Brent was the kind of guy who took his coffee black and strong, with no hint of sweetness.

But the innocuous question would break the uncomfortable silence.

“No thanks.”

The microwave pinged, and she took out her mug. Added a bag of her favorite, soothing peppermint tea.

Yet as she retrieved his mug from the coffeemaker, the almost palpable tension emanating from her guest might be too much for even her favorite comfort beverage to overcome.

He shouldn’t have caved and accepted Eve’s invitation.

This cozy kitchen that invited the sharing of confidences was undermining his resolve to keep his distance.

Though truth be told, it had been crumbling from the moment he’d met her.

Brent regarded the cake he no longer wanted and curled his fingers in his lap.

Walking through her door had been his first mistake—but why had he set himself up for further danger by tossing out that remark about licking the knife . . . and childhood memories? If he hadn’t made that stupid comment, she wouldn’t have asked the follow-up question he’d ignored.

Thankfully she hadn’t repeated it. No doubt she’d realized it was an off-limits topic.

Or it had been all these years.

So what was with the sudden urge to talk to a virtual stranger about painful episodes from his past he’d never shared with anyone but Adam?

It didn’t make sense.

Yet it felt right.

He rested his elbow on the table and pressed his knuckles against his mouth.

Should he take a chance with this woman, share some of the wounds in his soul—or play it safe and shut down, as usual?

Eve turned, both mugs in hand, and walked toward him. Her wary expression indicated she’d picked up the negative vibes bouncing around the room.

Given her intelligence and intuitive abilities, that wasn’t surprising.

She joined him at the table and gestured toward his cake. “Go ahead and dig in.”

He picked up his fork, his pulse racing as fast as it had during the tense standoffs that were the lot of a street cop, when one wrong move could change the landscape of a life forever.

Just as tonight could, if he gave into the urge to open his heart.

“Is everything okay?” Eve’s tentative question refocused him.

“Yeah.” He poked at his cake. “Sort of.”

She wrapped her fingers around her mug. “I’m sorry if I ventured into restricted territory—or said anything to upset you.”

“It’s not what you said that upset me.” Why deny his angst? It was obvious Eve had tuned in to his emotional state. “It was the memories your question stirred back to life.”

She studied him, as if waging an internal debate—then released her mug and rested her fingers lightly on top of his. “I’m not a bad listener, if you need a sympathetic ear. On the other hand, I won’t take offense if you want to talk about the weather, eat your cake, and go home to your book. We all have too much pressure in our lives as it is. I don’t want to add to yours.”

Her gentle touch, the empathy and kindness in her deep green eyes, and the no-penalty escape she’d offered cinched his decision.

If he couldn’t take a chance with this caring woman, he was doomed to live in an emotional vacuum forever.

He examined the slender fingers covering his. Filled his lungs. “I appreciate that—but I’d like to stay awhile . . . and answer your earlier question.” He exhaled, psyching himself up for a point-of-no-return leap. “No, licking the knife didn’t bring back happy memories from my childhood. That treat wasn’t part of my normal routine.”

To her credit, she didn’t pounce on him with a follow-up question. She simply withdrew her hand and waited, giving him the space and time to decide what—and how much—to share.

He set his fork back down and linked his fingers on the table. “I told you once I was raised by my grandparents.”

“I remember.”

“It wasn’t an ideal situation. I wasn’t a welcome addition to their household.”

“Then how did you end up with them?”

He stared into the dark depths of his coffee and dredged up the story that had shaped his life. “My mother died in childbirth at nineteen without ever revealing the name of my father. Since she was an only child, and our few distant relatives were scattered around the country, I’d have gone into the foster system if my grandparents hadn’t taken me. So after consulting with their pastor, they did their Christian duty. And that’s what I always felt like. A duty.”

The room went quiet, the admission hanging in the air between them.

He lifted his head, and at the compassion radiating from her, he nearly lost it. No one had ever looked at him with such gentleness and empathy. It was almost as if Eve could feel the pain that had plagued him for decades—which was crazy.

Yet it felt real.

“I’m sorry, Brent.” The ache in her whisper tightened his throat. “I can’t imagine growing up in that kind of environment.”

He gave a stiff shrug, hanging on to his composure by a hair. “I survived.”

“Are your grandparents still living?”

“No. My grandmother died eight years ago, my grandfather eleven months later. After they retired to Florida when I was twenty, I didn’t see much of them.” He picked up the fork, ran the tines through the icing, and let the sweetness dissolve on his tongue.

But it couldn’t mask the lingering bitterness he’d tried for years to vanquish.

Eve leaned forward, concern etching her features. “They didn’t neglect you—or mistreat you—did they?”

“Not in the way you mean. I always had enough to eat, clean clothes, and a warm place to sleep. As long as I followed the house rules, life was placid. But they were aloof people, and it was a lonely childhood. That’s why I developed such a love for reading. Books let me escape to happier places.”

Eve’s eyes began to shimmer. “Given your home life, I can’t believe you turned out as normal as you did.”

If only.

“That depends on how you define normal. I have a career I enjoy. I have a faith that sustains me, thanks to a youth leader at our church who took me under his wing when I was nine. I show up for work, pay my bills, take a vacation once in a while, volunteer with Big Brothers. But not every part of my life is normal.”

“Such as?” Eve’s question was mild, undemanding—and if he didn’t want to answer it, she wasn’t going to push.

He took a sip of his coffee . . . debating.

This was the part of the conversation he’d most dreaded—and he still wasn’t certain he could crack the door wide enough to let her in.

The strains of “I Won’t Back Down” filled the kitchen, and despite the tension rippling through him, a grin twitched at his lips. That had to be the ringtone on Eve’s cell. It fit her to a T.

She glanced at the counter, an annoyed frown marring her forehead.

“Tom Petty is calling.” He picked up his mug. “Go ahead and answer.”

And give me a couple of minutes to hash out my dilemma.

Although he didn’t speak those words, she seemed to hear them—because after a brief hesitation, she slid off her chair.

“Hold your thought. I’ll be back in a sec.” She crossed the room to retrieve her cell.

Leaving him to figure out how far he wanted to take this tonight—and whether he had the courage to go the distance.