“Yep. It’s amazing what you can pick up from those DIY videos.” She tipped her head. “I get the feeling you’re not the home handyman type.”

“I never had an incentive to be. I lived in an apartment until I bought an updated condo four years ago.”

“Your dad wasn’t into home maintenance projects either?”

Uh-oh.

This wasn’t the direction he’d expected their conversation to go.

He shifted in his seat and picked up his coffee, keeping his tone casual. “I was raised by my grandparents. My grandfather was an accountant who didn’t like hands-on projects.”

Like home repairs—or raising his daughter’s illegitimate son.

Several beats ticked by as Eve scrutinized him, and he had the uncomfortable feeling she’d picked up the lingering residue of resentment from his childhood days that he’d never quite been able to vanquish.

“Do you have any siblings?”

“No.”

“Mmm. An only child raised by an older couple. That could have a few downsides.”

More than a few.

And she was giving him an opening to talk about them.

But he hadn’t shared his history with anyone other than his best friend. Even with Adam, it had taken months to establish a sufficient trust level to risk confidences.

So how weird was it that he was tempted to spill his guts to a woman he’d met a mere five days ago?

He should get out of here before he caved and did something he could regret.

“It had pluses and minuses.” He pushed back his chair and rose. “I have to get to that meeting I mentioned.”

“Okay.” She stood more slowly and took a sip of her sweetened brew. Grimaced. “Yuck. Cold coffee ranks right up there with soggy Reuben sandwiches on my most-unappetizing list.” She grinned at him.

Hard as the lady dug in her heels on matters of principle, she knew how to read the signals—and when to back off—in interpersonal relationships.

Another check in her positive column—not that he was keeping score.

“My list would include instant mashed potatoes.”

She gave him a look of mock horror. “Perish the thought! In the Reilly family, the potato is sacrosanct.”

One corner of his mouth twitched. “That’s a mite stereotypical.”

“But true. Thanks to my mom’s heritage, though, we’re not entirely one-dimensional in our culinary tastes. After she died, Dad made an effort to expose us to Greek food and culture while we were growing up. In fact, I make a mean moussaka. And my sister Grace whips up world-class baklava.”

“What’s Cate’s specialty?”

“Eating.”

A chuckle erupted from his chest. “I have a feeling she and I would hit it off.” He motioned toward the door. “Are you hanging around here for a while or taking off?”

“Taking off.”

“Why don’t I walk you out?” He couldn’t offer round-the-clock protection, but he could see her to her car.