“Stop. Yes. It is.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. Looked away.
Sheesh.“What do you want me to say?”
He looked back at her. “I want you to acknowledge that... that there’s something here that’s not an act.”
She swallowed. “Yes, okay, fine. You’re . . . unexpected. And . . . cute.”
“You mean hot.” He smiled.
Shoot. So hot.She rolled her eyes, but yeah, he had this way of making everything better. Then she sighed.
“What was that?”
“It’s just . . . nothing.”
“Chloe.”
The way he said her name—patient, understanding, as if he had all day to wait for her answer—made something crack inside her chest.
“Fine.” She grabbed her water glass. “You want the whole sad story? Here it is. I date men who are fascinated by my job. Strong, independent woman fights for truth, saves the world one story at a time. Very attractive in theory.”
“But?”
“But theory only lasts until the reality sets in. Until they realize I mean it when I say my work matters. Until I miss dinner because I’m chasing a lead, or cancel vacation because a story breaks, or disappear for weeks investigating something dangerous. I don’t gohome, Skeet. Because I don’t have a home.”
Skeet said nothing, just watched her with those steady green eyes that made her feel exposed and safe and beautiful all at the same time.
“Then comes the concern trolling.” She took a drink of the ice-cold water. “The ‘maybe you should consider a safer career’ suggestions. The ‘I just want you to be happy’ conversations that really mean ‘I want you to be different.’ The ‘you’re too focused on work’ arguments from men who wouldn’t think of giving up their jobs, but I’m supposed to give up mine. And I get it—because their jobs don’t involve getting shot at, but still?—”
“How many times?”
“Shot at?”
“How many relationships ended that way?”
“Four. Five if you count Marcus.”
“And you think I’m going to be number six.”
It wasn’t a question. The certainty in his voice made her chest tight.
“Aren’t you?”
Instead of answering, Skeet reached for another piece of mango, chewing while she tried not to fidget under his scrutiny.
“I dated a doctor once,” he said finally. “Emergency-room surgeon. Brilliant woman. Saved lives every day.”
Chloe blinked at the non sequitur. “Okay?”
“She broke up with me because I was ‘emotionally unavailable.’ Said I used my job as an excuse to avoid real intimacy.”
“Did you?”
“Probably.” He met her gaze steadily. “I also dated a lawyer who wanted me to quit Jones, Inc., because the uncertainty was too stressful for her. And a teacher who thought my work was ‘unnecessarily dangerous’ and couldn’t understand why I chose it when I could do something safer.”
Understanding dawned. “They wanted to fix you.”