Bobby spread his hands, clueless.
“Our ancestors are from Norway. Sweden. Germany.”
“And Larsen?”
“Norwegian.”
“You don’t look Norwegian.”
“I get that a lot.” She didn’t seem to care for it either. “As I’m adopted, I have no idea where I’m really from.”
“Does it matter?”
“Seems to.”
“Did you ever try to find out?”
She shook her head. He would have asked more but something in the way her lips tightened made him not.
“I’m Creole,” he said.
Now she spread her hands and shrugged.
“Descendants of the French and Spanish, born in this country.”
“No one’s French around here. Or Spanish.”
“Probably not Haitian either.”
“Interesting.”
“Not where I come from.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d met someone who wasn’t one, the other, or all three—unless it was Sullivan.
“The most exotic mixture in New Bergin is German and Norwegian, which isn’t very exotic at all.”
“There’s something to be said for the nonexotic.”
“That would be boring.”
“You aren’t.”
For an instant he wished the words back. Then, her obvious surprise, followed by her equally obvious pleasure, made him glad they’d slipped out.
“Thanks,” she said. “Everyone in New Bergin was born in New Bergin or near enough. People who move here from away are always from away. Once they figure that out, they don’t stay.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
He couldn’t help it; he reached out and rubbed a piece of her inky black hair between his fingers. It was exactly as soft as it looked. “You stayed.”
“Where would I go?”
“Anywhere that you wanted.”
Interest sparked in her deep dark eyes. Maybe she’d like to— “Raye?” Mr. Larsen called.
They stepped away from each other as if they’d been caught doing something they shouldn’t.
“I’ll be right down.”
“You in his room?”
She stepped into the hall. “No.”
Bobby snorted, and she cast him a wicked glance. Suddenly he wished they’d been caught doing everything.
His thoughts must have shown because she ducked her head and moved out of his sight.
“I’m getting his towels.” She returned with an armload the shade of moss. “Bathroom is the first door at the top of the stairs.”
“Tell me it isn’t orange.”
“All right.”
“It isn’t?”
“You said not to tell you.”
He wasn’t sure if she was kidding or not and that only intrigued him more.
“Breakfast is included,” she continued. “Hence the name bed-and-breakfast.”
“I’ll be gone long before anyone’s made breakfast.”
“My father comes from a long line of farmers. Early to bed, early to rise. He’ll be up before you are. And he cooks for threshers just like his mother did before him.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“There’ll be more than doughnuts.”
“I’m pretty much a coffee-for-breakfast man.”
“Once you smell my father’s food, you won’t be.”
“I’m from New Orleans.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
They weren’t communicating well, seemingly had nothing in common. And instead of being bored, annoyed, and frustrated, Bobby was intrigued and fascinated.
“The food in New Orleans is pretty hard to beat.”
“We’ll see.”
He certainly wanted to. He made a valiant attempt not to let his gaze drop to her breasts, which were almost invisible now beneath a bulky, faded sweatshirt with a dancing cartoon Badger. The thing had a huge head. Didn’t badgers have small heads? He wasn’t sure. He’d never actually seen one. After seeing this one, he didn’t think he wanted to.
“Will your father take you home, or should I?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You’re not walking.”
“I’m not?”
The idea of her strolling through the dark, looming forest back to a town devoid of streetlights, even without the lurking murderer, gave him a twitch.
“You should stay here.”
“Here?” She glanced pointedly around the room.
Yes, please, he thought.
“If only,” he said.
She lifted her eyebrows. For a small-town girl who didn’t even own a car, his suggestive banter didn’t fluster her. He liked that about her too.
“Raye?” her father called again.
“Coming.” She didn’t move.
“Is Raye short for something?”
“Raymond.”
“Your name is Raymond.”
“My father’s father’s name was Raymond.”
He found it interesting that she didn’t use the word grandfather. But then he found everything about her interesting, which was … interesting.
“As I’m an only child they thought it would be nice to name me after him.”
Bobby wasn’t sure he’d call it nice. Maybe interesting.
He had to stifle a burst of derisive laughter. He appeared to have lost his mind.