Crazy for Your Love (The Boys of Jackson Harbor #5)(33)

“Steak or chicken?”

“Steak. But don’t tell my parents. They don’t know I eat beef.”

“Oh, are they Hindu?”

She puts her arms over her head and stretches, yawning. “No, it’s for health reasons, really.”

I wince. “Sorry. Was that an asshole white-guy assumption?”

“No, it’s fine. Dad’s parents were secular Hindus. Religion wasn’t really that important to them, but then he met my mom, who is a devout Catholic. He knew it was important to her, and he was happy to convert. Some of his childhood habits stuck, though, like the red-meat thing. I had my first hamburger in college and thought I’d died and gone to heaven. What about you? Steak or chicken?”

I stand up and start clearing plates. “Steak every time.”

She grabs my wrist, stopping me before I can pick up her plate. “You cooked. I’ll clean.”

“But I like taking care of you.” I don’t just mean the meal or the cleanup, and when she lifts her eyes to meet mine, I see the heat there. Is she thinking about Saturday night too?

“Only you could turn a discussion about who loads the dishwasher into a come-on line, Carter.” She’s trying to be flippant, but I don’t miss the way her gaze dips to my mouth or the flutter of her pulse at the base of her neck.

“I don’t know what you mean.” I wink and take the plates away before she can protest again.

“Thank you,” she says, even as she grabs the leftover salad from the table and follows me into the kitchen. “I know you prefer coffee to tea and beer to wine. What about hobbies? Any I should know about before I do one hundred introductions?”

“Other than collecting little bits of your hair?”

She throws her head back and laughs. It’s the best fucking sound, rich and full. “I’m so proud of myself for that,” she says.

“You should be. It was golden. And now all those damn ‘Carter the puppy hero’ Facebook fan pages are probably filled with tales of my creepy hair-collecting ways.”

“You really hate everyone making a big deal of that, don’t you?”

I scoff as I load the plates into the dishwasher. “Trust me, you’d hate it too. I’m not shy, but I like my privacy, and when this all blew up, suddenly I had to fight for it. I’m ready for it to be over.”

She’s quiet, and when I look up, she’s frowning at me. “Is that it? Really?”

I know what she means, but I can only shrug. “There are men and women fighting every day in the military, firefighters risking their lives, police officers facing dangerous criminals. Hell, even Molly coming back to Jackson Harbor and facing her jerk of a stepfather showed more bravery than what I did that day. I’d rather we acknowledge actual heroics instead of mislabeling something because we want an excuse to look at a shirtless guy carrying a puppy.”

She’s quiet again. I’m afraid she can see right through me, so I turn to fill the sink with soapy water. I’m not much of a housekeeper, but I’ve always enjoyed the ritual of cleaning up after a meal, and I find my pulse slows and my breathing settles as I scrub the pans.

“So . . . hobbies?” She puts the leftover salad and the bottle of dressing in the fridge and leans against the counter beside the sink. Close enough to touch.

“Working out, remodeling my house, helping Levi restore a random car here and there. Nothing exciting.”

“I didn’t know you were remodeling your house.”

“I like working with my hands and figured when I bought it I’d be able to add some value with minimal investment and lots of elbow grease. I’ve ripped up the old carpet and refinished the hardwood beneath. Right now, I’m working on replacing the trim. I thought I’d be able to strip off the paint, but it’s a mess, so I pulled it all off and started over. When the trim’s done, I’m going to finish off the attic to add another bedroom.”

“I’d love to see it sometime.”

“Sure. I’d love to show you.” I finish rinsing the dishes and place them into the dish drainer. “What about you? Any hobbies other than trying to keep my sister from being a shut-in?”

“I like to run. Sometimes. And I knit.”

I can’t help it. I gape. “You? Knit?”

“What? Why is that so surprising?”

I try to picture it and can’t. “Isn’t that, like, an old-lady hobby?”

“Carter, you just offended hipsters everywhere by your unironic mocking of one of their favorite pastimes.”

I hold out my palms. “I’d never intentionally offend a hipster, but you . . .” I rake my gaze over her. “You’re no hipster.”

“I’m not, but I do love to knit. Knitting and reading are the only ways I can really relax.”

Right, she was reading when I got here. I come from a family of big readers, so I always take that for granted. I don’t understand people who don’t read. It feels like willful ignorance to never try to experience anything from a different point of view. “What do you like to read?” I ask, drying my hands.

“Anything. Mostly fiction, with a hard preference for books with kissing.” She shrugs. “Actually, my unironic enjoyment of Taylor Swift and romance novels may be my best proof that I’m not a hipster.”