They’d released the scene two days ago. There’d been no other evidence found to go with the gasoline and boot print, except for a half-burned cigarette butt. They’d not put out an official ruling but the general consensus between MAST and the insurance company was that it would probably be undisclosed accidental fire—

“Babe, please. You’re not even pretending to hear me now.”

Caught off guard, he blinked at Cindy. “I’m sorry,” he said again, and scooped up a bite of baked potato, instructing himself to tune in. “I really am. Can you say that again?”

She reached over and squeezed his hand. “You’re going to make me think I’m boring.”

“I’m just tired.”

“Which is my point. My La Jolla town house is bigger than your place, which goes without saying since you live on a sailboat in a marina in Mission Bay.”

Uh oh.

She shot him a smile. “And I have plenty of extra closet space for you.”

Joe tossed back his entire glass of water and thought please don’t do this now.

But Cindy turned out to be a lousy mind reader. “I mean I really do understand the allure of living on the water, but it’s just not big enough for both of us…”

“Cindy—”

“And I have to admit, I have a secret fantasy about having a house in the suburbs. Something simple, with a nice yard for the kids.” She let out a bubbly laugh while he stared at her. “And a white picket fence. It’s got to have one of those.”

The succulent steak he’d eaten caught in his throat.

“I know it’s silly,” she said. “But you know I grew up in Manhattan, in a third floor walk-up. No yard, no place to call my own. Nothing like my dream house.”

Joe had grown up in her so-called dream house, but he’d only found nightmares there. A white picket fence was on his Never Have list.

“Our kids will love it.”

Kids. He nearly choked. He didn’t know the first thing about raising a kid, and with his father’s blood running through his veins, that was just as well.

“Joe? You’re looking pale. Like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Yeah, the ghost of his future. “Cindy,” he said again, gently now, because he was going to hurt her and he hadn’t meant to ever do that.

Her smile faded. “Is this about moving in together?”

“We’ve only been dating a little over a month—”

“Two months. Two months, Joe. And that’s plenty of time.”

“Maybe if we’d been seeing each other regularly.”

“Your job doesn’t let you do anything regularly.”

“That’s true. And because of it, out of those two months we’ve really only been together a handful of times.”