Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(36)

“So,” I say to fill what I consider to be a gaping silence. “You live here?”

His mouth twitches. “Yeah.”

Well, of course he does. “I mean, alone? Do you live alone?”

“Ayuh.”

“I see. Hmm. And how long have you lived here?”

“About a year.”

A year. “So you’ve lived here since—” Damn it. I probably shouldn’t finish that thought—since your cousin screwed you—but I can’t think of anything else to fill the space. “Since a year ago?”

Malone just stares eerily back at me, and I look around for Colonel, wanting to know that a friendly face is nearby. Malone finally breaks his vow of silence (and I have to admit, I’m grateful).

“Want a beer?” he asks.

“Oh, no thanks.” What am I thinking? “Actually, yes, please. That would be nice.” My palms are sweating with nerves, and I really hate the fact that I can’t seem to say anything even moderately intelligent. Malone opens the fridge and hands me a Sam Adams.

“Thank you.”

At the sound of refrigerator action, Colonel comes in, wagging hopefully. Malone squats down and pets him. At last, a character reference—he likes my dog.

“Hey, pal,” he says, scratching Colonel’s head. Wow. A two-word sentence. Colonel moans in pleasure, then licks Malone’s hand and walks into the living room. Malone stands up and fixes me with that unwavering blue gaze. Apparently, I am quite fascinating.

“Is that your daughter?” I ask, pointing to the fridge. There are a couple of photos there, one of a chubbycheeked toddler eating an apple, another more recent shot of a girl around ten or twelve sitting on a boat, shading her eyes from the sun.

“Yup.”

Back to the one-worders. My frustration and nervousness get the better of me, and I finally blurt, “Malone, let me ask you a question, okay?”

He nods, a brief jerk of his head.

“Why did you kiss me the other night?” There. Said it. And if my cheeks are now flaming, so what? At least he has to answer.

“The usual reasons,” he says, but the lines around his eyes are deeper. He takes a sip of beer, still looking at me.

“The usual reasons. Well, that’s funny. Because most times you can tell if someone, you know, likes you. Or is attracted to you. And I never really picked up on that before. With you, I mean.”

He doesn’t answer. A clock on the wall announces the inevitable passage of time…tick…tick…tick. Finally, I’m about ready to jump out of my skin. “Can I look around?” I ask.

“Sure.”

The living room holds a battered old upright piano with what looks like a pretty hard song. Sonata in A major, it says. Beethoven. Huh. “Who plays the piano?”

“I do,” he grunts.

“Really? You can play this?” I ask, impressed.

He comes in and glides a finger over the keys, too softly to make a sound. “Not that well,” he answers.

He’s standing pretty close to me. Very close. He smells warm, a little like wood smoke. I can see that he must have shaved at some point in the last day or so, because his face doesn’t look as scratchy as the night he kissed me. My eyes fall to his mouth, his full lower lip. So soft. I look away abruptly and take a step back. There’s not much else to see. A TV in the corner, a woodstove in the fireplace. A couch. Coffee table. I could tap dance, I have so much nervous energy flowing through me.

“You hungry?” Malone asks.

“No. I had a late lunch. Are you? Am I interrupting dinner? I should probably go.” My heart is thudding away, my eyes feel hot and tight.

“Don’t go.”

Malone takes my hand. His is warm and smooth and thickly callused. He rubs his thumb gently across the back of my hand and doesn’t say anything more. It seems the nerves in my hand are directly linked to my groin, because things are definitely tingling down there. I swallow and look around. My dog is sleeping in front of the couch.

Then Malone frowns a little and lifts my hand for a closer look. He makes a little tsking sound, and my jaw tightens.

“Yes, well, my hands are in the water all day long, and then with being near the grill and all—”

“Come here,” he says, pulling me back into the kitchen. He lets go of my chapped, disgusting claw, opens a cupboard and rummages around. I lean against the counter, miffed. So what? So I have chapped hands. Big deal. A little eczema and everyone gets distraught. Malone takes out a small tin and opens it. Then he scoops out a little bit and rubs it between his palms. I guess my nasty skin has reminded him of the importance of moisturizing.

“I’ve tried everything,” I say, looking over his shoulder. “Beeswax, lanolin, Vaseline, Burt’s Bees, Bag Balm…nothing works. I have ugly hands. My cross to bear. Big deal.”

“You don’t have ugly hands,” he chides. It may be the longest sentence I’ve heard him say yet. He takes my hand in his and starts working in the cream. It’s waxy and cool at first, then, after a few seconds, gets pleasantly warm.

He’s not gentle. Malone rubs my hands hard, pressing deep into the soft parts around my thumb, my palm, the heel. He works every finger, giving attention to each rough cuticle, each reddened knuckle. His eyes are intent on my hands as he works, and his face loses some of its harshness. Those sooty lashes go a long way toward softening his expression.