Page 69 of Hook

He arches a brow. “So you’ve given it thorough consideration, then?”

“Anyone in my shoes would, don’t you think?”

He shrugs. “I guess I’m biased. I can’t see why you wouldn’t want to be married to me.”

“As always, your arrogance knows no bounds.”

He smiles over the rim of his glass before taking a sip. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Such as?” I ask.

He rubs his hand across the back of his neck. “What’s your favorite food?”

I purse my lips as he’s trying to get to know me better. If it weren’t for the fact we’re already married, people would think we’re on a date. “I love Caribbean food. There’s a place in San Diego that does the best Jerk chicken ever.”

He smirks. “Creole Kitchen?”

“How did you…” I shake my head. “I forget that we live in the same city.”

“I love it there too,” he admits. “Although my favorite food is definitely my ma’s stew.”

It doesn’t exactly sound as exciting as Jerk chicken, and his Ma freaked me out. She acted rather oddly while she was holding me captive.

“Your ma was suspicious of me.”

His jaw works. “She’s not well.”

“Oh, what’s wrong with her?”

“She has dementia, and it’s severe.” He runs a hand through his hair. “She’s on medication, but it can only slow it down. Some days are better than others.”

I suddenly feel guilty for think she was crazy. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Our time has to be up at some point. For my ma, her time is numbered according to the doctors.”

I feel an odd sadness for him, as I sense his mum is all he’s got. “Do you have any siblings?”

The flicker of hurt that enters his eyes is visible for a second before they shutter like I’ve seen before. As if he’s closing off entirely. “No.” The tone of his voice is cold, which results in an awkward silence.

Thankfully, the server comes with our lobster, breaking the ice that has encased the entire table.

Cillian hasn’t mentioned his dad either, but considering the way he reacted when I asked if he had siblings, I think it’s best to steer clear of talking about his family at all.

“Can I ask you a question?” There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask him ever since I found out about his hand.

“Depends what it is.”

I swallow hard as suddenly his tone is back to light-hearted and playful. “How did you lose your hand?”

“A crocodile,” he says simply.

My eyes widen. “Really? Where did that happen?”

“I don’t like to talk about it. It’s a bit of a sore subject.”

I narrow my eyes, wondering if he’s messing around. There aren’t crocodiles in California, at least not wild ones. “Are you lying to me about the croc?”

“How about you stop asking me questions?”

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