he had no siblings of his own. He and his mom had lived only a couple of blocks from them, and his aunt and uncle’s chaotic house had been like a second home.
He had no idea why he told her that. It wasn’t like him to talk about the things that had mattered to him the most when he’d been growing up. Until he stopped, he hadn’t even realized how easily he’d been talking. But the quiet didn’t feel uncomfortable. At least, it didn’t until Amy casually lit the citron candle on the table to ward off the bugs and the dark now that the sun had set and asked about the one person in his family he hadn’t bothered to mention.
“What about your father?” she asked, her skin glowing golden in the candlelight.
His glance slid from hers. “What about him?”
Amy tipped her head, watching as he distractedly traced the logo on his empty cola can. He looked almost as nonchalant as he sounded. It was the way he’d so quickly looked away that gave her pause. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how relaxed he’d become with her.
And she with him.
“You haven’t said anything about him.” She offered the observation quietly, thinking it obvious that he had great affection for his extended family. It was just that he and his uncle seemed to have been the only two men in it.
“There’s nothing to say.” The light of the flame glinted like a spark off the silver metal as he nudged the aluminum container aside. “He left when I was nine.”
“So Mike is more like a father to you than an uncle.”
At the quickness of her quiet conclusion, he met her eyes. “You could say that. Yeah,” he admitted, since it didn’t feel right to be vague about the role the man had played in his life. “He is.”
His glance skimmed her face, drifted to her mouth. Realizing how closely he was studying her, he forced his attention away. He didn’t want to wonder why she was interested in any of this. He didn’t want to be curious about her at all. But more than anything else, he didn’t want to sit there with that soft light playing over her delicate features and think about how appealing he found the melodic sound of her voice and how comfortable he felt at her table.
“Speaking of Uncle Mike,” he muttered, wanting to cut off the thoughts that had crept in anyway, “I really have to get going. I need to talk to him before he goes to bed.” He also had another job to tackle tonight. He only hoped that, unlike last night, he wouldn’t fall asleep at his drafting table.
“But before I go,” he said, pulling a pen from his pocket, “I need you to tell me more about the room addition your grandmother wants. Your idea to close in the porch is good, so we’ll start with that.”
Pushing aside their plates, he slid a clean napkin toward her. “Show me what you have in mind.” Half a dozen bold slashes and he’d roughed out the shape of the porch and indicated the entrance to the kitchen. “Mark where you think she’d want windows and doors. And give me an idea of the space she’ll need for a closet.”
He leaned closer, repositioning the candle between them, and handed her the pen.
She took it, aware of the odd flutter of her nerves at his nearness, and tried to concentrate only on doing what her grandmother had asked of her as she explained what she thought the older woman would want. She also tried very hard not to feel flattered by the glints of approval she caught in his eyes when she offered a couple of suggestions her grandma hadn’t mentioned, or to feel pleased when he thanked her for dinner and told her her cooking skills had definitely improved. After all, she was no longer the naive girl she’d once been, and he was no longer the white knight she’d believed him to be.
He was the man who had hurt her sister.
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