think anymore.”
He eyed the elegant line of her nape, exposed by her loose topknot. There was something vulnerable about that sweet curve of skin.
“You were right,” he said suddenly, before he’d even thought about speaking. “About being good at cooking. Dinner was excellent.”
Another small laugh bloomed between them, more genuine this time. “Dinner was a simple throw-together, not excellent.”
He grasped the railing as well. “Don’t knock it. I eat a lot of frozen meals. I know good cooking when I taste it.”
“I should be good,” she muttered, “even if I’m out of practice.”
He pulled in another breath and salt air lingered on his tongue. “Why is that?”
“I trained at Le Cordon Bleu.” A huff of sound escaped with the words, almost as though she mocked herself. “After I attended the Culinary Institute of America in New York.”
“Wow.”
“Don’t sound so impressed.” A wry tone invaded her sultry voice. “The training only counts if you do something with it.”
He studied her, fine features highlighted by the moonlight and shadows. “You didn’t?”
“No. I married Stephen Chason and let him take over my life.”
What was he supposed to say to that? He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” She spoke so softly he almost missed the words. Then she straightened, and this time, her voice was stronger. “No, I’m not. Sorry I let him break me? Sure. Sorry I married him and ended up with those three in there? No. I’d never be sorry for having them.”
The pleasant memory of their wild squeals on the beach that afternoon echoed in his ears. “They’re good kids.”
“Too good. But I’m going to change that.”
Damn, she was strong. He had no doubt she’d turn her life around now that she was free. Ruthie Chason definitely had what it took to survive.
And prosper.
With a sudden, sharp movement that made him jump, she turned and leaned against the railing. He felt the prickle of her steady gaze on him. “So, tell me about Chris Parker. Did you always want to be a cop?”
“Yeah. As long as I can remember.”
She scraped a fingernail along the wood. “Have you been at Chandler County long?”
“Three years. I was with the Tifton PD before that.”
Silence fell between them, broken only by the distant lap of waves and the occasional rise and fall of voices from the direction of the village. Ruthie’s quiet sigh washed over him. “It’s really nice here.”
“Yeah.” A fall of warm memories tumbled over him—fishing, crabbing, boating, all with his father’s steady presence. “It was my dad’s getaway.”
Her cotton T-shirt rustled against the wood as she glanced up at him. “Was?”
“He died right after I graduated from college. He’d sold the house in Tifton and moved over here fulltime by then.”
“What about your mother?”
The familiar cold shadow tried to settle on his shoulders, but he sloughed it off out of habit. No sense dwelling on that. “She took off when I was three. It was just me and my old man. He raised me.”
“That had to be hard for you.”
“It was okay. Lots of kids survive with just one parent.”
“They do. My mother did a great job after my father died, but it was still hard, for all of us. I hope…” Doubt entered her voice as it trailed away and he sensed her squaring those slender shoulders. “I hope I do as well.”
“You will.” He touched her hand before he thought about what he was doing. The tips of his fingers tingled and he jerked away. Shit. What was he doing? He cleared his throat. “I mean, you’re great with them and I’m sure you’ll…they’ll be fine.”
“Thank you.” A smile lingered in her voice and this time, she brushed her fingers across the back of his wrist. God, he was too aware of that light touch, too aware of her. This was not good. He had to get away before he went and did something totally stupid, something Troy-Lee-Farr stupid. The possibilities for
He eyed the elegant line of her nape, exposed by her loose topknot. There was something vulnerable about that sweet curve of skin.
“You were right,” he said suddenly, before he’d even thought about speaking. “About being good at cooking. Dinner was excellent.”
Another small laugh bloomed between them, more genuine this time. “Dinner was a simple throw-together, not excellent.”
He grasped the railing as well. “Don’t knock it. I eat a lot of frozen meals. I know good cooking when I taste it.”
“I should be good,” she muttered, “even if I’m out of practice.”
He pulled in another breath and salt air lingered on his tongue. “Why is that?”
“I trained at Le Cordon Bleu.” A huff of sound escaped with the words, almost as though she mocked herself. “After I attended the Culinary Institute of America in New York.”
“Wow.”
“Don’t sound so impressed.” A wry tone invaded her sultry voice. “The training only counts if you do something with it.”
He studied her, fine features highlighted by the moonlight and shadows. “You didn’t?”
“No. I married Stephen Chason and let him take over my life.”
What was he supposed to say to that? He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” She spoke so softly he almost missed the words. Then she straightened, and this time, her voice was stronger. “No, I’m not. Sorry I let him break me? Sure. Sorry I married him and ended up with those three in there? No. I’d never be sorry for having them.”
The pleasant memory of their wild squeals on the beach that afternoon echoed in his ears. “They’re good kids.”
“Too good. But I’m going to change that.”
Damn, she was strong. He had no doubt she’d turn her life around now that she was free. Ruthie Chason definitely had what it took to survive.
And prosper.
With a sudden, sharp movement that made him jump, she turned and leaned against the railing. He felt the prickle of her steady gaze on him. “So, tell me about Chris Parker. Did you always want to be a cop?”
“Yeah. As long as I can remember.”
She scraped a fingernail along the wood. “Have you been at Chandler County long?”
“Three years. I was with the Tifton PD before that.”
Silence fell between them, broken only by the distant lap of waves and the occasional rise and fall of voices from the direction of the village. Ruthie’s quiet sigh washed over him. “It’s really nice here.”
“Yeah.” A fall of warm memories tumbled over him—fishing, crabbing, boating, all with his father’s steady presence. “It was my dad’s getaway.”
Her cotton T-shirt rustled against the wood as she glanced up at him. “Was?”
“He died right after I graduated from college. He’d sold the house in Tifton and moved over here fulltime by then.”
“What about your mother?”
The familiar cold shadow tried to settle on his shoulders, but he sloughed it off out of habit. No sense dwelling on that. “She took off when I was three. It was just me and my old man. He raised me.”
“That had to be hard for you.”
“It was okay. Lots of kids survive with just one parent.”
“They do. My mother did a great job after my father died, but it was still hard, for all of us. I hope…” Doubt entered her voice as it trailed away and he sensed her squaring those slender shoulders. “I hope I do as well.”
“You will.” He touched her hand before he thought about what he was doing. The tips of his fingers tingled and he jerked away. Shit. What was he doing? He cleared his throat. “I mean, you’re great with them and I’m sure you’ll…they’ll be fine.”
“Thank you.” A smile lingered in her voice and this time, she brushed her fingers across the back of his wrist. God, he was too aware of that light touch, too aware of her. This was not good. He had to get away before he went and did something totally stupid, something Troy-Lee-Farr stupid. The possibilities for
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