“I hate liars.” Frankie scowled, then her nose wrinkled. “I guess that’s one way to ensure a sale.”

A snort broke from him, and then he was laughing, roaring, because…yeah. It felt as if sharing—and the humor—had shaken loose a knot that’d been inside for a long time.

“Sorry, that was rude,” Frankie said to her cup.

“The truth can be.” Still smiling, Bull lifted his mug to her. “Now you know why I reacted badly when she showed up.”

“I would say you showed a lot of restraint.” Frankie got up and fetched the coffee pot to refill their cups. “Here, I thought my breakups were bad.”

Bull spotted the flicker of pain in her liquid dark eyes. She’d been hurt…and he had a wayward notion to find the bastards and teach them the error of their ways. “Breakups. More than one?”

As she resumed her seat, Frankie studied Bull. He was all man—his shoulders wider than the back of the big chair. It was easy to see he was the sort of person who preferred to keep emotional baggage to himself, but he’d shared about his wife and their divorce.

It was a gift, in a way.

One that perhaps should be reciprocated.

She rose. “I’m half-Italian—and my grandmother always cooked when she got upset or unhappy. Can I make you breakfast?”

“If you let me help.” He stood, dwarfing her.

When some guys loomed over her, she wanted to punch them. Bull, instead, made her feel like moving…closer. She took a step back. “Sure. In Nonna’s house, everybody pitched in.” Even the men. Sharing the cooking and clean-up had been the only feminist directive her Italian grandmother had embraced.

In the kitchen area, she set out mushrooms, onions, and bell peppers. “You get to chop.”

She started on frying the bacon.

He washed his hands, then diced the onions in a way that said he knew his way around a kitchen. No wonder Audrey had been startled when Frankie’d doubted he could cook anything other than protein shakes.

A woman could learn a lot about a man by observing him cook. Bull was skillful. Precise. Everything went into tidy piles. When she’d told him what to do, he’d simply agreed. He was a team player.

Catching her watching, he prompted, “How many breakups have you been through?”

He was also too good at multi-tasking.

“A few, I guess. Two were serious. One marriage.”

He shot her a keen look. “Still hurts?”

After a moment of checking her emotions, she could tell him, “Not nearly as much as during the divorce period.”

His smile agreed. “Your ex cheated?”

“Actually, no.” She could feel her chest tighten around the pain and humiliation. Was this how Bull had felt when he’d told her about his wife? “It’s complicated.”