“We need to talk, we have problems,” I informed him and his brows drew slightly together as his arms curled me protectively closer.
“What problems?”
I opened my mouth to speak and didn’t know where to start. So I asked, “Have you eaten?”
“No,” he replied.
I pulled away, ordering, “Change out of those wet clothes, I’ll make you a bologna sandwich and we’ll talk.”
“A what?”
That’s when I lost it.
“Just change out of your clothes!” I cried.
The instant I finished my last word, his hand cupped my jaw and he bent to put his face in mine. “I’ll change, Cora, calm down. Whatever it is, we’ll sort it out. Right?” he said softly.
I looked in his eyes, sucked in breath and nodded, hating that his quiet, powerful strength could calm me but having to admit that it could.
His hand dropped away and he sauntered into my bedroom.
I dashed into the kitchen.
I was toasting bread and frying bologna when he walked in wearing another, more faded pair of jeans (that were, incidentally, even hotter on him than the others) and a white, long sleeved tee that was tighter than the other one and seeing as I’d never seen him in anything but black or, this morning, navy blue, its brightness against his tanned, olive-toned skin looked so good, it struck me momentarily speechless.
I pulled it together when his eyes dropped to the frying pan and he asked, “What, by the gods, is that?”
“Bologna,” I answered, he looked at me, I knew my answer meant nothing to him so I explained, “It’s a kind of meat.”
“It’s round,” he observed with barely concealed distaste.
“Uh… yes.”
“Meat is not round,” he declared.
Well, he was mostly right.
“Can we not talk about bologna?” I asked, he held my eyes for a second then he crossed his arms on his wide chest and leaned a hip against the counter which I took as an affirmative.
I flipped the bologna, snatched the toast out when it popped up and started talking.
“I think Cora is in trouble. I found a big stash of money in my TV cabinet. A lot of it, Tor. Too much to earn in two months in any legal way. I found out she’s playing poker and I think that’s how she’s getting it.”
I squirted mustard on the bread and turned my head to look at him.
“Poker?” he asked.
“It’s a card game. Gambling.”
His brows drew together and he clarified, “A game of chance for money?”
I nodded.
His lips thinned.
Oh boy.
“What?” I asked.