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dinner, we’ll talk about the unimportant shit for a while, take a walk back with me to my boat, share a glass of wine and let’s get to know each other some, eh?” he looked at me plaintively and I snorted.
    “I said I don’t give it up on the first date,” I said dryly.
    “Not looking for sex,” he said softly. If he were, he’d be disappointed because I would probably… who the fuck was I kidding, if it weren’t for Faith I would probably tap that ass and be slipping out of his bed pulling the walk of shame before the sun could even rise. I was about to smart off but there was something in the look he was giving me.
    “Sure, yeah. Okay.” I found myself saying. Who the fuck was this guy that he could have such an effect on me after just a couple of meets?
    “Know what you like?”
    “Haven’t looked at the menu.”
    “Can you trust me enough to order for yah?” he asked with that disarming smile of his.
    “I suppose.”
    He ordered for us from the bartender who nodded and said, “You got it, Cut.”
    “What’ll you drink?” Cutter asked me.
    “Water.”
    “You heard her, Man; water and I’ll have another IPA.” The bartender nodded, poured our drinks and wandered off to put our order in. “Where were we?”
    “Lost track.” I told him, certain he was referring to our earlier game of however many questions.
    “Ladies first then.”
    I pondered him in the light from the sunset blaring in from the back windows. There was something different about him this time, like he’d committed to something. He had that soldier’s resolve painted all over his face, in the set of his shoulders, which despite how he nonchalantly leaned against the bar, were stiff.
    “Why Florida?” I asked.
    “It was as far away and as filled with water as I could get from that crusted, dried, piece of shit country,” he said and his expression grew steelier, not less. I nodded slowly. I didn’t have much love for Iraq or Afghanistan either, especially as a woman.
    “What about you? Where do you call home?” he asked.
    “Nowhere, I have some shit in storage, but that isn’t ‘home’,” I answered.
    “Why, you runnin’?” he asked. I gave him a smile.
    “Not running.”
    “Not runnin’?” Now it really seemed as if I had piqued his curiosity but plates were set in front of us and music started up and started up loud. I quirked an eyebrow at him and took a bite of my pasta which was creamy and delicious and loaded with all manner of seafood.
    We ate in silence, or at least we didn’t talk. There was no point in shouting over the music pounding through the bar. It was a Friday or Saturday night by the looks of it, and the party started here as soon as the sun went down. We finished our food and Cutter threw down some rumpled bills on the bar. The ‘tender whisked them away, nodded, and Cutter slipped off his stool. I followed suit and like earlier he held out his arm, the perfect gentleman.
    I slipped my arm through his and he led me out front, out of the blaring noise and onto a lightly breezed sidewalk. He turned left, away from my B&B and towards the marina. We walked in silence for a time.
    “Believe it’s your turn to ask,” he said after the bass thump from the bar was a distant pulsing beat behind us, echoing in time with my slightly elevated pulse.
    “Why’d you start your gang?” I asked. Cutter choked on a laugh and patted my hand where it rested in the crook of his arm, then left his hand covering my own. His fingers were warm, calloused and rough against my skin, but I didn’t mind. I liked a man who worked for a living and the texture of Cutter’s hands had a lot to say about that.
    “The Kraken MC isn’t a gang, Sweetheart. It’s a club. A motorcycle club, or MC for short,” he explained. My face felt hot and I had to bite my lips together to stop myself from apologizing. He’d sounded genuinely offended for a second there. Cutter chuckled.
    “Apology accepted,” he said simply