The dinner had gone so well after those first few awkward minutes—why had she ruined it by dwelling on Lance’s combat experience, which he obviously didn’t want to discuss? She risked a peek at him. He was checking messages, brow puckered. He hadn’t said a word since she’d come into the kitchen. Not a positive sign. Maybe he’d down his coffee in a couple of swigs, grab a cookie or two, and hightail it out of here. Why hang around someone who’d put him on the spot twice tonight, first with her prayer before the meal and then by bringing up the Middle East? The prayer, she didn’t regret. The other . . . big mistake. She’d read enough about the situation in that part of the world to know it left lasting scars on soldiers—physical, psychological . . . or both. And it was clear Lance bore his share. Perhaps the best way to salvage the situation would be to introduce some lighter subjects and hope he hung around through dessert.
