Confidential: Expecting!

“It is and has been.” She had to work to keep the bitterness out of her tone. “My dad’s not dead. He’s a deadbeat.”

“Ohh.” He grimaced. “Sorry. How old were you?”

“Eleven. My mother had been a stay-at-home mom with no marketable job skills when their marriage ended. She had a hard time finding work. She didn’t want me to wind up depending on a man.”

Mallory reached for her wine, if for no other reason than that taking a sip would shut her up. The only other person she’d ever mentioned this to was Vicki, her college roommate, and then only after a few too many margaritas.

Because she had a good idea what Logan must be thinking, she decided to say it first. “That’s not the reason I’m married to my job, though. I happen to really enjoy what I do.”

“I don’t doubt it.” He sipped his wine, too.

It was time to shift the conversation’s focus. “What about your family? Siblings?”

“One of each, both younger than me.”

“And your parents? Are they still together?” She knew that they were, but saying so would make it seem like she’d done a background check on him. Which she had.

“Yep.” Nostalgia warmed his smile. “They’re going on forty years and they still hold hands.”

The answer prompted a question she was only too happy to ask, since it would turn the spotlight away from her life. “And yet you’re thirty-six and single. Why is that?”

A shadow fell across his face, there and gone so quickly she almost wondered if she’d imagined it. But then he offered a disarming smile—a defense mechanism?—that made her all the more curious.

“I guess you could say after the apple fell, it rolled far away from the tree.”

This apple had, too, Mallory thought, stuffing memories of her childhood back into their cubbyhole. And for good reason in her case. But why would someone whose parents had what sounded like the perfect union be gun-shy when it came to commitment? It bore looking into. Later.

Now, she said, “Do your siblings still live in Chicago?”

She knew his parents did. The elder Bartholomews were no strangers to the newspaper’s society pages.

“Yes. My sister, Laurel, attends Loyola. She’s pushing thirty, has been taking classes for more than a decade and has yet to settle on a major. It drives my parents crazy. Luke, my brother, owns a restaurant.”

“Locally?”

He nodded. “The Berkley Grill just a few blocks up from Navy Pier.”

“I love that place!” Mallory exclaimed. “Especially the grilled portabella mushroom sandwich topped with provolone cheese.”

“That’s one of my favorites, too.”

“Is your brother a chef, then?” she asked.

“No. Like me he can hold his own in the kitchen, but he’s a businessman by trade, and he has a good eye for spotting potential.” His voice was tinged with pride. “The restaurant needed a fresh menu, updated dining room and better marketing to capitalize on tourist traffic. Since he bought it and made the upgrades, the place has done pretty well, even in this economy, and earned free publicity with a spot in a Food Network special.”

“Do you ever plug his place on your radio program?”

“That would be a conflict of interest and not terribly ethical. Besides, he doesn’t need my help.”

Mallory nodded.

His gaze narrowed. “Are you disappointed with my answer?”

“Of course not. Why would I be?”

He didn’t reply directly. Instead, he lobbed a question of his own. “What made you decide to become a journalist?”

“Curiosity,” she said again. “I like knowing why things happen the way they do. Why people make the choices they make. I’m rarely happy unless I’m getting to the bottom of things.”

“Then what were you doing covering today’s luncheon? Not much dirt to uncover there.”

“Penance,” Mallory muttered before she could think better of it.

She expected him to pounce on that, since getting to the bottom of things was one of the hallmarks of his profession, too. But just as he’d knocked her off balance with the offer of a sail, he surprised her now by changing the subject.

Rising from his seat he asked, “Are you ready for coffee and dessert?”

“Maybe just coffee.” She stood, as well, and helped him collect the dishes.

“A rain check on the dessert, then?”

Mallory liked the sound of that. It would give her an excuse to contact him again. Another chance to dig for a story that had to be in his past somewhere. “Okay.”

Five steps led from the sailboat’s deck to the cozy main cabin that was filled with the amenities Logan had mentioned. The small kitchen area boasted a sink, cooktop, oven, microwave and wood cabinetry that deserved points for both function and form. Upholstered benches flanked a table on the opposite wall. Further back was a comfortable seating area and a door that she guessed led to a bedroom, since the bathroom’s door was clearly marked with the word Head.

“This is nice,” she commented.

She meant it. Mallory didn’t know much about sailing. For that matter, she’d never been inside a boat like this one. But the glossy hardwood and soft-hued fabrics and upholstery were homey and inviting. The gentle swaying motion didn’t hurt, either.

“I like it.”

“This is an older boat, right?”

“She dates to the 1970s,” he agreed.

“She.” Her lips twisted.

Logan was grinning when he took the dishes from her hands and set them in the sink. “I’m guessing you consider it sexist that boats are referred to using female pronouns.”

“Not sexist necessarily. Just…annoying.”

“Right. From now on I’ll call my boat Bob,” he deadpanned. “Better?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “He seems more like a Duke. Besides, it has a name.”

“Tangled Sheets.” He grinned and she fought the urge to fan herself.

“That’s an interesting name for a boat. One might even call it a bit risqué.”