Confidential: Expecting!. Jackie Braun
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had what sounded like the perfect union be gun-shy when it came to commitment? It bore looking into. Later.
Now, she said, “Do your siblings still live in Chicago?”
She knew his parents did. The elder Bartholomews were no strangers to the newspaper’s society pages.
“Yes. My sister, Laurel, attends Loyola. She’s pushing thirty, has been taking classes for more than a decade and has yet to settle on a major. It drives my parents crazy. Luke, my brother, owns a restaurant.”
“Locally?”
He nodded. “The Berkley Grill just a few blocks up from Navy Pier.”
“I love that place!” Mallory exclaimed. “Especially the grilled portabella mushroom sandwich topped with provolone cheese.”
“That’s one of my favorites, too.”
“Is your brother a chef, then?” she asked.
“No. Like me he can hold his own in the kitchen, but he’s a businessman by trade, and he has a good eye for spotting potential.” His voice was tinged with pride. “The restaurant needed a fresh menu, updated dining room and better marketing to capitalize on tourist traffic. Since he bought it and made the upgrades, the place has done pretty well, even in this economy, and earned free publicity with a spot in a Food Network special.”
“Do you ever plug his place on your radio program?”
“That would be a conflict of interest and not terribly ethical. Besides, he doesn’t need my help.”
Mallory nodded.
His gaze narrowed. “Are you disappointed with my answer?”
“Of course not. Why would I be?”
He didn’t reply directly. Instead, he lobbed a question of his own. “What made you decide to become a journalist?”
“Curiosity,” she said again. “I like knowing why things happen the way they do. Why people make the choices they make. I’m rarely happy unless I’m getting to the bottom of things.”
“Then what were you doing covering today’s luncheon? Not much dirt to uncover there.”
“Penance,” Mallory muttered before she could think better of it.
She expected him to pounce on that, since getting to the bottom of things was one of the hallmarks of his profession, too. But just as he’d knocked her off balance with the offer of a sail, he surprised her now by changing the subject.
Rising from his seat he asked, “Are you ready for coffee and dessert?”
“Maybe just coffee.” She stood, as well, and helped him collect the dishes.
“A rain check on the dessert, then?”
Mallory liked the sound of that. It would give her an excuse to contact him again. Another chance to dig for a story that had to be in his past somewhere. “Okay.”
Five steps led from the sailboat’s deck to the cozy main cabin that was filled with the amenities Logan had mentioned. The small kitchen area boasted a sink, cooktop, oven, microwave and wood cabinetry that deserved points for both function and form. Upholstered benches flanked a table on the opposite wall. Further back was a comfortable seating area and a door that she guessed led to a bedroom, since the bathroom’s door was clearly marked with the word Head.
“This is nice,” she commented.
She meant it. Mallory didn’t know much about sailing. For that matter, she’d never been inside a boat like this one. But the glossy hardwood and soft-hued fabrics and upholstery were homey and inviting. The gentle swaying motion didn’t hurt, either.
“I like it.”
“This is an older boat, right?”
“She dates to the 1970s,” he agreed.
“She.” Her lips twisted.
Logan was grinning when he took the dishes from her hands and set them in the sink. “I’m guessing you consider it sexist that boats are referred to using female pronouns.”
“Not sexist necessarily. Just…annoying.”
“Right. From now on I’ll call my boat Bob,” he deadpanned. “Better?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “He seems more like a Duke. Besides, it has a name.”
“Tangled Sheets.” He grinned and she fought the urge to fan herself.
“That’s an interesting name for a boat. One might even call it a bit risqué.”
“Why? A sheet is another name for a sail, Mallory.” His face was the picture of innocence now, but it was plain he understood the double entendre because when he turned to retrieve two coffee cups from a cupboard the grin returned.
“Well, someone has either taken excellent care of this boat or it’s been restored.”
“The latter,” Logan confirmed. Over his shoulder, he asked, “Cream or sugar?”
“Black.”
He handed her a steaming cup and poured one for himself. Leaning back against the sink, he said, “It took me an entire winter’s worth of weekends after I purchased her—” he cleared his throat “—I mean, Duke, to finish the overhaul. I basically gutted the place and started over. And I’m still puttering most weekends.”
He glanced around the salon and nodded. Puttering still or not, his expression made it clear he was pleased with his progress so far. Mallory could understand why. Logan might not look like the sort of man who would know a hammer from a ham sandwich, but obviously he could hold his own with the guys on HGTV. Power suits and power tools didn’t normally go together. Questions bubbled.
“Where did you learn carpentry and—” she motioned with her hand “—how to do repair and maintenance?”
“One of my dad’s hobbies is woodworking, and he’s always been good at home repair. My brother and I spent a lot of time with him in his workshop, helping him put things together. I picked up a few tips along the way.”
“I guess so.”
“You’re surprised.”
“Maybe a little. You don’t look like the sort of man who would be…”
“Good with his hands?” he finished.
He set his coffee aside and held up both hands palm side out. His fingers were long, elegant, but the palms were calloused. The man was definitely hard to figure out, but she wasn’t trying at the moment. She was staring at those work-roughened hands and wondering how they would feel…on her skin.
Mallory swallowed and ordered herself to stay focused. “Why not just buy something brand-new?”
“I don’t know. I guess you could say I prefer a challenge.”
The way his eyes lit made Mallory wonder if that was what he considered her to be.
Logan was saying, “Besides, she had great bones and an even better history. Her previous owner had sailed her from Massachusetts all the way to Saint Thomas the year before I got her and nearly lost her to a hurricane along the way.”
“So, your boat is a survivor and you had a hand in resurrecting her…him.”
“Duke.”
“Duke,” she repeated.
His laughter was dry. “Yes, but I can assure you I don’t suffer from a God complex.”
“Then why did you get into psychiatry? Didn’t you want to save people?”
“I wanted to help people.” Oddly, he frowned after saying so. He sipped his coffee. The frown was gone when he added, “Most