What harm could a simple meal do? He could eat and run. Besides, Molly had raved about the great time she’d had at Daisy’s yesterday afternoon, and had been more than eager to spend a few hours with her this evening. Thankfully, old Daisy had become an ally of his since he’d moved to town, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out the old lady’s softened stance had a lot to do with Molly.
The way he looked at it, the severe spinster would be a good influence on Molly, giving her some female stability in her topsy-turvy little world.
The world he’d turned topsy-turvy through his own stupidity at letting that brash young driver off the hook. He’d seen something of himself in that guy—confident, cocky, with the gift of the gab—and he’d taken the soft option.
Pity the soft option had turned out to be the hardest one for his motherless daughter.
As for dinner—he could do this. As long as his long-dormant libido didn’t get any crazy ideas. In four years he hadn’t looked sideways at a woman, and now that he finally felt settled for the first time in ages maybe his imagination had just been hot-wired into action? Though it probably had more to do with the surprising woman wearing a fitted ‘I Luv Chocolate’ T-shirt, a short skirt and no shoes than anything else.
‘It’s settled, then. You uncork the wine; I’ll serve up.’ She thrust a corkscrew into his hands before he could change his mind and all but pushed him into a seat at the table. ‘Hope you like Shiraz. I’ve been saving this.’
‘Don’t open it on my account.’
‘I love a good red, so go ahead.’
Carissa almost bit her tongue in frustration. She was trying to be nice here, to repay Brody for helping her out yesterday, but it wasn’t working. Dinner with her moody neighbour had been a bad idea. He obviously didn’t want to be here, and she hated having to watch her ‘p’s and ‘q’s, being careful not to stir up her neighbour’s latent temper.
Racking her brain for some small, innocuous comment to break the awkward silence that enveloped them, she said, ‘Tell me about your job.’
‘I’m not working at the moment.’ He poured the wine into glasses and handed one to her, his frown a clear indication that he didn’t want to discuss his employment status further.
Undeterred, she ploughed on, determined to get him to lighten up, to give her some glimpse of the man behind the terse façade. She knew he’d had a hard time, and there was something about Brody Elliott that had her wanting to hug him, pat his back and make it all better. ‘I heard you were a cop before you came to Stockton?’
‘Who told you that?’
‘You know what small towns are like. Everyone knows everyone else’s business.’
Laying his wine down on the table after taking a healthy swig, he folded his arms and leaned forward. ‘Yeah, well, I just wish they’d butt out of mine. Being a cop is in the past, and I’d like to keep it that way. What else are they saying about me?’
Bringing over the pasta and sauce, she suddenly wished she hadn’t gone down this track. Perhaps she was rushing things? Pushing him for private information too soon? He’d probably clam up for good, and then she’d never get anything out of him.
‘That you’re a widower.’
‘Well, that’s certainly true. Jackie died four years ago.’
Not surprised that he didn’t volunteer more information, she bustled about the kitchen before she pried any further—like asking how it had happened—laying the meal on the table and ushering him to sit before she joined him.
‘It must’ve been awfully hard for you and Molly.’
He nodded and offered her the salad while he broke off a chunk of garlic bread. ‘Molly wasn’t quite two. One of her favourite words at that time was “Mum” and she walked around for months afterwards saying “Mum gone”. It was heartbreaking.’ He stuffed the bread in his mouth and she wasn’t sure if she’d heard correctly when he muttered, ‘Still is.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said—for the loss he’d suffered and for the pain that obviously still hung over him like a dark shroud.
He must have loved his wife very much, and if anyone could understand the long-term effects of grief she could. There wasn’t a day that went by when she didn’t think about her parents and what her life would have been like if they’d lived. ‘I know how Molly feels. I lost both my parents when I was three. I was devastated.’
A flare of interest sparked in his eyes as he fixed that all-seeing gaze on her. ‘What happened?’
‘Dad was a geologist and loved travelling the world. Mum accompanied him on a trip to the Alps—probably for a break from the three of us. They died in an avalanche.’
‘I’m sorry too,’ he murmured, his genuine sympathy bringing an unexpected lump to her throat.
She’d had years to come to terms with her grief—long years when she’d cried herself to sleep every night while huddled beneath the blankets, trying to stifle her sobs from her angry adoptive father—yet here she was, about to blubber in front of a virtual stranger who’d offered a kind word.
‘You said three of us?’ he asked.
‘I have two sisters. Tahnee’s the youngest and Kristen’s the oldest. They split us up at the orphanage. Tahnee and Kristen got adopted out first; I spent a year in that hellhole. We found each other about six years ago.’
‘My God,’ he said, taking hold of her hand across the table. ‘How awful.’
It had to have been a purely instinctive gesture, but the minute his hand enveloped hers she couldn’t think straight. His touch elicited a response she couldn’t comprehend. But it was far too early to feel anything other than respect for this man—respect for a single father doing the best he could in raising his daughter.
She slid her hand from his on the pretext of dishing up a plate of spaghetti bolognaise and managed a weak smile. ‘Listen to us—a real pair of agony aunts.’ She handed him a plate, being careful to avoid touching him again. Otherwise he’d probably end up wearing hot pasta on his crotch. ‘Here—try this. It’s my favourite recipe.’
Casting a quizzical look her way, he took the plate she offered. ‘Thanks. It smells delicious.’
And, with that, they dug into their meal, only pausing to make the odd casual remark like ‘Pass the Parmesan, please’ or ‘More dressing on your salad?’ She would have liked more conversation but, as meals went, it wasn’t the worst she’d had with a man. In fact, there was something strangely comforting about a guy who didn’t feel obliged to babble about his business or sporting prowess all through dinner—who seemed happy to eat in companionable silence without spouting off.
‘Thanks for the meal. I’ll help you clean up, and then I think it’s time I left.’ He stood up from the table so quickly his chair teetered on two wooden legs before slamming back on the floor.
‘What’s your hurry? We haven’t had dessert yet.’
He patted his stomach, drawing her attention to the hard planes evident beneath the white cotton T-shirt and putting a new slant on dessert in her mind. ‘I’ll pass on dessert, but thanks for a magnificent meal. Now, do you want to wash or dry?’
‘Leave it. I’ll use the dishwasher,’ she said, turning away before he saw the wistful expression on her face.
She didn’t want him to leave.
She wanted him to stay and share dessert—perhaps talk some more, maybe even laugh a little? They were neighbours, and it wouldn’t hurt for them to be on friendly terms. Who knew? He might even lighten up and let her spend some time with Molly. Though, by the surly expression that had returned to his face, she doubted it.
‘Here—I made extra for you and Molly to have