Not that she hoped to twist Gideon into knots. She was only following orders. Still, it would have been nice if he noticed, if he showed a hint of reaction. Instead, he returned his attention to the chair, not giving her a second glance. Apparently, if she was waiting for his approval, she had a long wait ahead.

Stepping nearer, she stroked one of the chair’s curved arms. “Beautiful,” she murmured. “So, this is what you do when you’re not hunting werewolves?”

He paused without looking up, his jaw flexing. “Lycans,” he corrected.

She rolled her eyes. “Semantics.”

He resumed sanding, the rhythmic scratching sound filling the air. “My grandmother owns an antique shop in Rosenberg. She sells my work out of her store.”

Claire moved to inspect the mahogany dresser, marveling at the intricate carving on each of the drawers. “You’re an artist,” she mused.

He snorted, sanding away vigorously, his dark blond hair, brown with sweat, falling in a sweep over his forehead. “Hardly. My dad was a craftsman, a true artisan. People from all over the country wanted his work.”

She rubbed the smooth surface of the dresser as if easing the pain she sensed inside him. Still, she couldn’t help feeling a stab of envy. Even in his few words, she knew he’d had the kind of relationship with his father she never would have with hers.

“And he taught you everything he knew, right?” Because she knew that’s what fathers did. Good fathers anyway. The only thing her father had taught her was that invisibility was safer.

“Yes.”

“And your mother?” she asked, wincing the moment the question slipped out.

His mouth tightened. His movements became more vigorous. She felt his tension, palpable as waves of heat radiating on the air.

“My mother was a music teacher. In her free time, she was the choir director for our church. She was a good Catholic. Fish on Fridays—and not just during Lent. No excuses. We were front pew every Sunday. Christ,” he snorted, “she didn’t exactly lead the type of life that attracted lycans.” His bottle green gaze cut to her. “She never took a stroll down a dark alley.”

Claire stiffened. “Are you saying I brought this on myself?”

His well-carved mouth twisted almost cruelly. “I’m not saying anything, Claire.”

Disliking the implication that she had brought this on herself, she suggested, “I thought we could get something to eat before we go out.”

He grunted.

“What?” she asked—then remembered.

Eating out together, socializing—those were taboos. He didn’t want to get too close. No doubt he had avoided her all day for that very reason.

“Sorry to trouble you,” she snapped, hating the pout in her voice, the pang of loneliness in her heart. Turning to leave, she called over her shoulder, “I’ll just go and eat the box of Arm and Hammer in your fridge.”