" Aren’t you going to ask me what kind of boat I own?” he asked.
“Sure. What kind of boat do you own?”
“A sailboat.”
“That’s nice. The coals are ready. I’ll just dab some herb butter on the swordfish and we’ll be eating in no time.”
Travis shook his head at Cat’s lack of interest in the possibilities of sailing with him.
“Are you sure you like sailing?” he asked.
“I love the ocean,” Cat said as she spread a sheen of butter over the swordfish. “I don’t know beans about rag sailing. So if you’re one of those avid sailors who expects me to care about sloops and catamarans and jibs and the six thousand boring shapes of canvas you can hang from masts, you’re going to be one disappointed puppy.”
Travis smiled ruefully. “I learned a long time ago that my love of wind, sail, and water isn’t something most people give a damn about.”
“Like me and photography. I could go on for hours about light and texture, shape and weight and shadow and—Get the door for me, would you?”
He opened the door and followed Cat out to the back deck. Her hands were full of fresh swordfish. His eyes approved her unconscious grace as she bent over the grill.
“But I’m more than willing to listen to you talk about wind and all,” she said without looking up. “I’ll even make soothing noises, as long as there isn’t a pop quiz at the end.”
He laughed out loud. “Some other night, maybe. I won’t ask that much of a sacrifice on our first date. "

― Elizabeth Lowell , To the Ends of the Earth