Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(31)

“Does she live around here?” I ask.

“No.” He stares at me as if daring me to go on, but I lose my nerve. Belatedly, I remember the story of his wife and child moving across country.

I make attempt number two a little lighter. “So, Malone is your last name, isn’t it?” He nods. “What’s your first name?”

I get the death stare and silence, then, “I don’t use it.”

I sigh and drink some more wine. We order dinner—hamburgers for both of us—and the silence stretches on.

Skip and Annabelle seem to have no such problems. Lots of laughs from over there. Twinkling giggles from her, low chuckles from him. At one point during our meal, one of the guys at the bar goes over to Skip and asks, “Didn’t you used to play baseball?” and Skip says with false lightness, “Oh, hell, a long time ago when I was a kid,” as if he gave it up for something more meaningful…like selling cars.

“I really think I hate him,” I whisper to Malone. He nods.

The Parkinsons are not finished. Apparently (I have forbidden myself to look at them), a gift is given, because Annabelle cries, “Oh, Skip! Oh, sugar, you shouldn’t have!”

Malone doesn’t look over. Neither do I. We look at each other instead, united in this odd, uncomfortable way. I’ve now had enough wine that it’s starting not to bother me.

“You don’t talk much, do you, Malone?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer.

“Want to have a staring contest?” I ask. Bingo! The lines around his eyes deepen and the corners of his mouth move upward a fraction. “I think you may have just smiled,” I inform him. “How did it feel? You okay?”

As usual, he doesn’t answer, but there’s something a little different. It takes me a minute to realize it, but Malone is kind of…appealing. Those lashes are so long they’re actually tangled in the corners. His hair is thick, curling a little around his ears and neck. And while his face is slashed with harsh lines, and while I have yet to see a real smile, his mouth is full and slightly pouting and rather sexy, actually. Life has left its mark on Malone’s face with a heavy hand, but it’s an interesting face, scruffy and rugged and gloomy. His cheekbones are sharp and angular, carved by the wind, almost, and it’s this phrase that makes me realize I shouldn’t have ordered that second glass of wine.

I clear my throat and look away. The waitress brings our check, and I fish around in my purse for my wallet. Malone takes out his first and withdraws a few bills.

“No, no, let me,” I say, taking his money and holding it out to him. “This is definitely on me.”

He scowls, making his face a little scary again. He doesn’t take the money. I put it back down and stand up.

“Okay. Thank you for a lovely dinner and everything else,” I say. He follows me across the restaurant.

“Bye, now. So nice meeting you,” Annabelle calls out.

“Ditto,” I say. Malone offers nothing, and neither does Skip.

In the parking lot, I pause. “Thanks again, Malone,” I say.

“Ayuh.” He walks to his truck, pleasantries complete.

I get into my car and turn the key. The engine doesn’t start. This is not an uncommon problem for me, and I sigh, pop the hood and get out. Malone is still there, sitting in his truck, watching me.

“It’s fine,” I call. “Happens all the time.”

But it’s dark, and I have to fumble in my purse for the screwdriver I carry at all times. If I can just find it, I’ll open the hood, stick the screwdriver in the air filter, and the car should start. But I can’t find it, because I failed to transfer it from my everyday pocketbook to the smaller one I’m carrying now. Nor can I find anything else that would work, like a pen.

Sighing, I walk over to Malone’s truck. “Do you have a screwdriver?” Surely he must. He’s a man, isn’t he?

“No.”

I close my eyes. The restaurant door opens, and Skip and Mrs. Skip walk over to their expensive, shining car.

“Good night, now!” Annabelle calls. Skip holds the door for her, then goes to the driver’s side. He looks over to me and pauses.

“Malone, how about a ride home?” I ask before Skip can do anything.

“Sure,” Malone says. He leans across the seat and opens the passenger door for me, which is unexpectedly polite from a man who has uttered only a handful of words this evening. I climb in. Tomorrow, Jonah or my father will have to drive me back here, but at least I’m safe from Skip’s eyes for now. Malone starts the truck and pulls out of the parking lot.

“I really appreciate this,” I tell him. He glances at me but doesn’t say anything.

We don’t talk on the way home—I’m too engrossed in thought to try to lure Malone out of his cave. When we get into town, I break the silence and direct him to my house. He throws the truck into park and hops out. I get out before he can open my door.

“I’ll walk you in,” he growls.

“No, that’s okay, you don’t—” But he’s already waiting by the porch. I sigh. “I live upstairs,” I say. “That’s Mrs. K.’s apartment. Mine’s up there.” Malone waits for me to go first. The stairway is a straight shot to my door, and there’s barely enough room for both of us to stand on the tiny landing. I fish out my key and unlock the door, then turn around to thank him.