Children of the Sea 03 - Sea Lord

disorder and neglect, for the cracked vinyl and the cramped spaces and the mildew that sprouted mysteriously at the bottom of the stairs. At least her floors were clean.
    Conn followed her as she marched past the shadowy living room, flipping on light switches as she went.

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    He stood in the middle of her scrubbed kitchen floor, overdressed, out-of-place, dark, and wild. Her heart thundered. She felt breathless, as if he’d done his sucking-all-the-oxygen-out-of-the-room trick again.
    And yet he did not move, only stood there with his hands still clasped behind his back.
    “Where is your father?” he asked.
    She grabbed a spoon and lifted the lid of the Crock-Pot, hoping he wouldn’t notice her hot cheeks.
    “Out,” she said, stirring.
    Conn glanced at the now-dark windows. “It is late to haul traps.”
    He knew her dad was a lobsterman. Lucy’s hand tightened on the spoon. What else did he know?
    “My father’s on the water by five every morning. In by four, most days. He off-loads and does his business at the co-op.” She set her spoon on the counter, pleased that neither her hand nor her voice trembled. “And then he goes to the bar at the inn and drinks until they won’t serve him anymore.”
    She fit the lid carefully back on the pot and turned to face Conn, her back to the counter, her chin high.
    “Are you hungry?”
    A short, charged silence vibrated between them.
    Conn studied her face, his silver eyes inscrutable. “Yes. Thank you. That smells very good.”
    She almost sagged with relief and disappointment.
    What had she expected?
    That he would say he was sorry for her, for her alcoholic father, her crappy childhood?
    That he would sweep her off her feet and take her away like a prince in a fairy tale?
    Stupid, stupid. She wasn’t looking for sympathy. Or rescue. Especially not from some cold-eyed stranger who twisted her insides into knots.
    What a good thing he hadn’t offered either one.
    “Sit down,” she said. “I’ll get you a plate.”
    His eyebrows raised. “You must join me.”
    Not, “ Would you join me? ” Not a question or a request. Obviously, he expected her to sit down and put a good face on things and pretend that everything was normal.
    Lucy bit her lower lip. And she would, too.
    Because she always did.
    Conn generally paid scant attention to what he ate or did not eat. But hot food was a change from his usual raw diet. The simple stew had stirred his appetite.
    He watched the girl—Lucy—as she cleared the table and washed their few dishes. In her own venue, she was really quite competent. He observed the neat, practiced movements of her hands as she rinsed a plate and set it on the counter to drain. Narrow, brown hands, with long, slender fingers and strong wrists.
    She stirred his appetite, too.
    Conn frowned. He was revising his opinion of her attractiveness. He still did not understand what he was doing here.
    She turned from the sink, a cloth in her hands, and thrust it at him. “Dry.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    She gestured toward the counter stacked with dishes. “I’m running out of room. I need you to dry.” A sudden gleam appeared in her eyes. “You do know how to dry, don’t you?”
    He regarded her with mingled appreciation and annoyance. Was she laughing at him?
    “I believe I can learn,” he said and took the cloth.
    They worked in silence until all the dishes had been dried and put away.
    “What about that one?” he asked.
    She glanced over her shoulder at the big pot on the counter. “It’s fine.”
    “There is food inside.”
    Not much. Conn had filled his plate twice. But . . .

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    “It will be wasted,” he said.
    She took the dishcloth from him without meeting his gaze. “My father might want something when he comes in.”
    Might?
    “ He goes to the bar at the inn, ” she had said, “ and drinks until they won’t serve him anymore. ”
    “And if he is too drunk to eat?” he asked.
    Lucy fussed with the cloth, arranging it over the bar of the oven door to dry. “Then in the morning before I go to work, I’ll throw it out.”
    “Will you wash the pot then, too?”
    “Yes.”
    “And prepare something else.” Not a question, this time.
    She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I guess you think that’s stupid.”
    Stupid, yes. And gallant.
    He