And why would he, after being raised by two such cold people? After spending his youth in a joyless environment where emotion was discouraged? After his one outreach as an adult had been rebuffed with callous indifference?

After all, if you didn’t get close to anyone, you couldn’t get hurt.

But people who never allowed themselves to feel emotions—or make connections—could have difficulty forming social attachments.

Was that why he’d never married? Was that what he’d been trying to tell her with that last comment? That he wasn’t the best husband material?

Or was she reading too much into his remark?

No way to be certain unless she asked for clarity . . . with as much diplomacy as she could muster.

She pressed a finger on a stray crumb and deposited it on her plate, speaking slowly as she formulated her response. “I’m trying to read between the lines here, and I may be off base—but I’m interpreting what you said to mean you haven’t always been as successful in relationships as you’ve been in your career. And that this may be why you’ve never married.”

The corners of his mouth rose, but there was no humor in his eyes. “Are you certain you didn’t double major in psychology?”

“Psych 101 was as far as I went. Western history and political science were my focus.”

He arched an eyebrow. “How did you end up in education?”

“History and poli sci majors don’t get a ton of job offers. The teaching gig in a private high school fell into my lap, and I grabbed it. Doing the blog on the side allowed me to use my degrees—but I’d still be teaching if that hadn’t taken off and led to the radio program. I enjoyed working with young people.”

“Well, you would have done well in psych. You nailed the problem. I tend to keep my emotions close to my vest, and that isn’t conducive to starting—or maintaining—a relationship.”

Careful, Eve.

“Is that conclusion based on assumption—or experience?”

“Experience.”

Meaning he had at least one failed relationship in his past—perhaps more.

And they must have come to ugly ends if they’d scared him off of trying again—and impelled him to warn her he was damaged goods.

Except he wasn’t.

If his emotions were buried too deep to retrieve . . . if his ability to connect with another person was too broken to salvage . . . if he truly believed he was destined to live his life alone . . . he wouldn’t be in her kitchen tonight, sharing such painful secrets from his past.

Nor would he be here if he didn’t care for her a great deal.

Maybe more than he’d ever cared for any other woman.

But would he be receptive to her conclusions—or think she was glossing over wounds he was convinced had left permanent damage?