observed as she scratched her cat under the chin. “What in the world did you find to cook?"
He had concocted a casserole out of instant rice, cheese, and frozen broccoli with some bacon strips on top, and a salad from what little crisp part was left of the lettuce, along with leftover carrots. Now he pulled her “lite” French dressing from the refrigerator door, eyed it doubtfully, and put it back, going instead to the spice rack. As Brandy watched, he located vinegar, olive oil, and a cruet, and concocted his own salad dressing. “It would be better with fresh herbs,” he said, “but this is still better than that artificial stuff."
Another good smell made itself known, and from the oven Dan produced a pan of buttermilk biscuits. He must have found those on the refrigerator door. As they looked and smelled perfectly fine, Brandy didn't ask if he had checked the expiration date.
The food was amazingly good—or maybe it was the company. It revived Brandy, and she realized she wasn't going to be able to relax easily. Dan was spinning stories of his students—amusing stories when she could focus on them, but her mind couldn't let go of the Car 108 case. It didn't take Dan long to realize that she was not giving him appropriate responses.
When they finished eating, he said, “Go lie down on the couch while I do the dishes."
“Men aren't supposed to act like that,” Brandy observed.
“Oh? How are men supposed to act?"
“Nice, when they want something. I've known men who can cook before, too, but the only men I know who do dishes are married or gay."
“What—you've never met a straight man who lives alone?"
Brandy wanted to answer, “Of course I have!” but had to stop and think. Single men in Western Kentucky tended to live at home, maybe staying in the college dorm or an apartment with some other guys till they tired of the frathouse lifestyle. Then it was back to Mom's home cooking and laundry until they got a wife to take care of them.
So she said, “I didn't say met. How would I know the lifestyle of every man I've ever met? I said men I know well enough to have been in their home or had them in mine. And I was wrong. All men wash dishes when there are no clean ones available; they don't usually do what you're doing, wash up one meal's worth and leave the kitchen clean. The men I know who do that are married, gay, or divorced."
So quietly she almost didn't hear him over the sound of water filling the kitchen sink, Dan added, “Or widowed."
“Oh,” Brandy said, caught flat-footed. “Oh, I'm sorry."
He looked up, blinked, and said quickly, “I didn't mean me. I haven't been married—in this life."
Brandy's instincts picked up something in the way he said that. She couldn't quite tell if he was lying—yet it didn't make sense to lie about something like that. All that mattered if their relationship were to go anywhere was that he wasn't married now.
“I'm not,” he answered her thought again. “And yes, I hope our relationship goes somewhere."
“After this week?” Brandy asked. “Most men would have given up on me by now."
“Because you've had to cope with an emergency? Police officers don't get murdered every day, at least in this part of the world.” He rolled his sleeves up and began washing dishes with the skill of long practice. When Brandy reached for the dishtowel he said, “You're supposed to be resting. Besides, it's more sanitary to let them dry in the rack."
Somebody had domesticated this man. That wistful note of sadness in his voice when he had said, “Or widowed,” had to mean something—perhaps a tragic love affair? But she could not ask, not yet. When she got to know him better—if she got to know him better.
When he had finished the dishes and dried his hands, Dan turned to Brandy. “Shall I carry you to the couch?"
“I have to warn you,” she replied, “I know karate."
“And you also carry a gun. I love dangerous women.” He took her hand and led
He had concocted a casserole out of instant rice, cheese, and frozen broccoli with some bacon strips on top, and a salad from what little crisp part was left of the lettuce, along with leftover carrots. Now he pulled her “lite” French dressing from the refrigerator door, eyed it doubtfully, and put it back, going instead to the spice rack. As Brandy watched, he located vinegar, olive oil, and a cruet, and concocted his own salad dressing. “It would be better with fresh herbs,” he said, “but this is still better than that artificial stuff."
Another good smell made itself known, and from the oven Dan produced a pan of buttermilk biscuits. He must have found those on the refrigerator door. As they looked and smelled perfectly fine, Brandy didn't ask if he had checked the expiration date.
The food was amazingly good—or maybe it was the company. It revived Brandy, and she realized she wasn't going to be able to relax easily. Dan was spinning stories of his students—amusing stories when she could focus on them, but her mind couldn't let go of the Car 108 case. It didn't take Dan long to realize that she was not giving him appropriate responses.
When they finished eating, he said, “Go lie down on the couch while I do the dishes."
“Men aren't supposed to act like that,” Brandy observed.
“Oh? How are men supposed to act?"
“Nice, when they want something. I've known men who can cook before, too, but the only men I know who do dishes are married or gay."
“What—you've never met a straight man who lives alone?"
Brandy wanted to answer, “Of course I have!” but had to stop and think. Single men in Western Kentucky tended to live at home, maybe staying in the college dorm or an apartment with some other guys till they tired of the frathouse lifestyle. Then it was back to Mom's home cooking and laundry until they got a wife to take care of them.
So she said, “I didn't say met. How would I know the lifestyle of every man I've ever met? I said men I know well enough to have been in their home or had them in mine. And I was wrong. All men wash dishes when there are no clean ones available; they don't usually do what you're doing, wash up one meal's worth and leave the kitchen clean. The men I know who do that are married, gay, or divorced."
So quietly she almost didn't hear him over the sound of water filling the kitchen sink, Dan added, “Or widowed."
“Oh,” Brandy said, caught flat-footed. “Oh, I'm sorry."
He looked up, blinked, and said quickly, “I didn't mean me. I haven't been married—in this life."
Brandy's instincts picked up something in the way he said that. She couldn't quite tell if he was lying—yet it didn't make sense to lie about something like that. All that mattered if their relationship were to go anywhere was that he wasn't married now.
“I'm not,” he answered her thought again. “And yes, I hope our relationship goes somewhere."
“After this week?” Brandy asked. “Most men would have given up on me by now."
“Because you've had to cope with an emergency? Police officers don't get murdered every day, at least in this part of the world.” He rolled his sleeves up and began washing dishes with the skill of long practice. When Brandy reached for the dishtowel he said, “You're supposed to be resting. Besides, it's more sanitary to let them dry in the rack."
Somebody had domesticated this man. That wistful note of sadness in his voice when he had said, “Or widowed,” had to mean something—perhaps a tragic love affair? But she could not ask, not yet. When she got to know him better—if she got to know him better.
When he had finished the dishes and dried his hands, Dan turned to Brandy. “Shall I carry you to the couch?"
“I have to warn you,” she replied, “I know karate."
“And you also carry a gun. I love dangerous women.” He took her hand and led
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