He got up and pulled on jeans and a thermal shirt, heading downstairs to find his dad exactly where he'd predicted—at the kitchen table with coffee and the newspaper.
"Morning," Thomas said without looking up.
"Morning."
"Riley still asleep?"
"Shower."
Thomas nodded, turning a page. "You two have plans today?"
"Not really. Thought we'd just hang around. Maybe work on some small stuff around the farm if she's up for it."
"Sounds good." Thomas glanced up with a small smile. "She fits here."
Grant's chest tightened, but he just nodded and poured himself coffee.
Riley appeared twenty minutes later, her hair damp and curling, wearing jeans and one of Grant's flannels she'd clearly stolen from his closet. She helped herself to coffee and the plate of scrambled eggs Thomas had made, settling into the chair beside Grant like she belonged there.
They spent the morning doing exactly what Grant had hoped—moving through the easy rhythm of farm life together. Riley helped him feed the animals, laughing when the goats tried to eat her jacket. They checked the fences in the back forty, walking through snow that came up to their knees in some places. She asked questions about his plans for the spring, about what crops he wanted to plant, about the expansion he'd been dreaming of for years.
And Grant told her. All of it. The vision he had for the north field, the varieties of trees he wanted to add, the way he could see the farm growing into something bigger without losing what made it special.
Riley listened like she actually cared. Like his dreams mattered to her.
"Your sandwiches are burning," Riley murmured against his chest.
"Don't care."
"Your dad's going to smell smoke."
"Still don't care."
But he let her go anyway, rescuing the slightly charred sandwiches and plating them with an exaggerated flourish. They ate standing at the counter, bumping shoulders and stealing bites from each other's plates, and Grant thought:This. I want this every day.
By early afternoon, they'd retreated back inside, cold and snow-covered and starving. Grant pulled out leftover ham and his dad's famous scalloped potatoes from Christmas dinner while Riley found the rolls and made hot cocoa.
They settled on the couch with their plates balanced on their knees, legs tangled together under a blanket. Riley told him about Tyler's latest band drama—something about the drummer quitting mid-gig and Tyler having to improvise with a cardboard box. Grant told her about the goat that had escaped three times last week and ended up in Mrs. Henderson's vegetable garden.
It was easy. Comfortable. Perfect.
Grant kept thinking about what he wanted to say. About asking her to stay. About telling her this wasn't fake anymore. About telling her he loved her. But every time he opened his mouth to start that conversation, something held him back.
The day was too good. Riley was too relaxed, too happy. He didn't want to ruin it by making things heavy. Didn't want to pressure her or make her feel like she had to choose right now before she left.
There would be time. Later. When she got back from the city. They'd talk then.
After lunch, Grant built a fire while Riley curled up on the couch with a book she'd found on his shelf. Thomas had disappeared somewhere—probably to give them space.
Grant settled beside her, and Riley immediately shifted, tucking her feet under his thigh and leaning against his shoulder. Grant wrapped his arm around her and let himselfsink into the moment. The weight of her against him. The smell of woodsmoke and pine. The quiet contentment of just existing together.
"This is nice," Riley said softly.
"Yeah. It is."
"I could get used to this."
Grant's breath caught, but he didn't say anything. Didn't ask what she meant. Didn't push.
