lacking the knowledge to do it well. I assume we all fall into that latter category, though I can’t speak for Stephen.”
“You’re thirty-five. Haven’t you ever had any ambitions to do better for yourself? Feed yourself something that didn’t come out of a paper wrapper or off a menu?”
He shook his head and clamped a steamed oyster between his fingers. “People can’t be good at everything. Cooking isn’t the sort of science I excel in. And I make enough money to eat well without learning to cook.”
“So you can’t even grill a steak?”
He chewed thoughtfully a moment, then looked down at her, conceding, “I could grill a steak, if you could call it that. I like ’em bloody.”
She turned her lip up and made a gagging sound.
“You seem concerned about my dietary preferences, and yet I haven’t seen you eat so much as a forkful of lettuce the entire time we’ve been here,” he said.
“I eat,” she countered. There was that cheese Danish and… Well, there might have been a chicken breast prior to the wedding. It was hard to keep track.
“Right. If my grandmother were alive, she’d tie you to a chair and spoon fatty broth into a funnel shoved into your mouth until you perked up a bit.”
Now she sat up, curling her legs beneath her.
Seth’s eyes cast downward to the open vee of her legs, and he grinned before leaning toward his tray again. She could guess what he saw, given her bikini bottoms were a far cry from full-coverage, but she wasn’t going to double-check for quality assurance.
He’d seen it all anyway in the dim light of the bedroom.
She did wonder, though, why it was so easy for him to be calm when any other man would have tried to touch…arouse.
“Are you insinuating that I’m too skinny?” she asked him.
“Tell me what answer you want, and I’ll give it to you.”
Burn. Sad thing was, she didn’t know what answer she wanted, so she let the subject drop.
“So, really, what’s your book about?”
He tossed an oyster shell onto the tray and turned the book around so she could see the cover once more. “Theoretical spacecraft construction, more or less. It’s a couple decades old, but it’s always good to read the original source material you see cited.”
Oh.
“And that…makes sense to you?”
He snorted and smiled so the wrinkles at the corners of his hazel eyes deepened. “Does grammar make sense to you?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Doesn’t make a lick of sense to me in any language. That’s the way I’m programmed. I understand space, as much as any man can, I understand physics, and I understand engines. Subject-verb agreement might as well be oncology for all the sense it makes to me.”
“Even before I majored in English, I had a gut feel for the language. Could tell that things looked wrong, even if I couldn’t specifically put a label on why. Made sense that I became a technical writer.”
Slowly, he extended one hand and pushed back a swath of hair that’d fallen into her face. “Didn’t Grant fail you in writing your freshman year?”
Her cheeks burned hot, and she swung her feet down to the floor, standing. “Does everyone know about that?” She rooted a bottle of water out of her bag and angrily unscrewed the cap.
“No, koshka , not everyone. I know because Sharon told me. She told me a lot about you.”
“Sounds like Sharon, that traitor.”
She’d drained half the lukewarm bottle before running her forearm across her lips and replying, “I wasn’t bad at writing. I missed some assignments.”
“You would’ve have had to miss a lot, huh? Isn’t Composition II fairly elementary for a natural-born writer?”
She screwed the cap back on and set the bottle down. “Three out of six major papers.”
“Why?”
“Because it was college and one of the things people do in college is goof off and fuck up.” Her voice caught a bit of an edge toward the end that made his smile draw in.
She sighed and closed her eyes, rubbing
“You’re thirty-five. Haven’t you ever had any ambitions to do better for yourself? Feed yourself something that didn’t come out of a paper wrapper or off a menu?”
He shook his head and clamped a steamed oyster between his fingers. “People can’t be good at everything. Cooking isn’t the sort of science I excel in. And I make enough money to eat well without learning to cook.”
“So you can’t even grill a steak?”
He chewed thoughtfully a moment, then looked down at her, conceding, “I could grill a steak, if you could call it that. I like ’em bloody.”
She turned her lip up and made a gagging sound.
“You seem concerned about my dietary preferences, and yet I haven’t seen you eat so much as a forkful of lettuce the entire time we’ve been here,” he said.
“I eat,” she countered. There was that cheese Danish and… Well, there might have been a chicken breast prior to the wedding. It was hard to keep track.
“Right. If my grandmother were alive, she’d tie you to a chair and spoon fatty broth into a funnel shoved into your mouth until you perked up a bit.”
Now she sat up, curling her legs beneath her.
Seth’s eyes cast downward to the open vee of her legs, and he grinned before leaning toward his tray again. She could guess what he saw, given her bikini bottoms were a far cry from full-coverage, but she wasn’t going to double-check for quality assurance.
He’d seen it all anyway in the dim light of the bedroom.
She did wonder, though, why it was so easy for him to be calm when any other man would have tried to touch…arouse.
“Are you insinuating that I’m too skinny?” she asked him.
“Tell me what answer you want, and I’ll give it to you.”
Burn. Sad thing was, she didn’t know what answer she wanted, so she let the subject drop.
“So, really, what’s your book about?”
He tossed an oyster shell onto the tray and turned the book around so she could see the cover once more. “Theoretical spacecraft construction, more or less. It’s a couple decades old, but it’s always good to read the original source material you see cited.”
Oh.
“And that…makes sense to you?”
He snorted and smiled so the wrinkles at the corners of his hazel eyes deepened. “Does grammar make sense to you?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Doesn’t make a lick of sense to me in any language. That’s the way I’m programmed. I understand space, as much as any man can, I understand physics, and I understand engines. Subject-verb agreement might as well be oncology for all the sense it makes to me.”
“Even before I majored in English, I had a gut feel for the language. Could tell that things looked wrong, even if I couldn’t specifically put a label on why. Made sense that I became a technical writer.”
Slowly, he extended one hand and pushed back a swath of hair that’d fallen into her face. “Didn’t Grant fail you in writing your freshman year?”
Her cheeks burned hot, and she swung her feet down to the floor, standing. “Does everyone know about that?” She rooted a bottle of water out of her bag and angrily unscrewed the cap.
“No, koshka , not everyone. I know because Sharon told me. She told me a lot about you.”
“Sounds like Sharon, that traitor.”
She’d drained half the lukewarm bottle before running her forearm across her lips and replying, “I wasn’t bad at writing. I missed some assignments.”
“You would’ve have had to miss a lot, huh? Isn’t Composition II fairly elementary for a natural-born writer?”
She screwed the cap back on and set the bottle down. “Three out of six major papers.”
“Why?”
“Because it was college and one of the things people do in college is goof off and fuck up.” Her voice caught a bit of an edge toward the end that made his smile draw in.
She sighed and closed her eyes, rubbing
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