Ignoring me, he turns to the house and points at a set of second-floor windows.
“That’s my bedroom. No peeping, okay?” He winks, and my face goes hotter than the sun.
“Close your blinds, then,” I sputter. “Why would you even say something like that? Why are you acting like this?”
And why is he getting a rise out of me like this?
“Like what?”
I search for the right word. “Silly.”
“He’s always like that,” Bea calls from the bed.
No, he isn’t. He’s different here at home. Lighter and more at ease.
In the morning light, his eyes are so sharply green. “I just like bugging you. You get all flustered.”
“I’m not flustered.” I am. My face is probably beet red. So uncool.
He goes on like he didn’t hear me. “Toothpaste, toothbrushes, face wash, towels, soap, et cetera are all in the bathroom. I’ll have your fridge stocked tomorrow.”
“Again, not necessary.”
“No TV unfortunately, either here or in the house, but that cabinet has books.” He tilts his chin at an antique cabinet.
“You don’t have TV? Not a single TV in that house.”
“Nope.” He becomes very interested in the trim above the door.
An NHL coach without a TV to watch games? I’m not buying it.
“So what do you do here in the Little House on the Prairie?” I ask. “Is Bea forced to make her own dolls out of tree bark and old grass?”
“I like to read,” she calls over.
He smiles. “We have a library inside the house. We play board games. Cook dinner, make cookies. Go for hikes, kayak on the water. Go to movies. Ride our bikes. In the summer, work on our garden.”
The image is adorable. “Are you secretly some granola hippie, Tate?”
Surprise flares in his eyes at me using his first name again. “Got the solar panels to prove it.” He looks behind me. “Bea. Time for breakfast.”
“I’m reading.” She doesn’t look up.
He stares at her patiently but with a firm, expectant look, and again, I feel that urge to smile. She sighs and slips off the bed. The cat gets up and follows her.
“Same time tomorrow?” she asks me, and I laugh in surprise.
“Bea,” her dad says.
“I’m kidding.” As she’s walking out the door, she calls over her shoulder, “Watch out for cougars!”
I give Tate an alarmed look. “Is she kidding?”
“Yes. By the time you see a cougar, you’re already dead.”
“This isn’t funny.”
His eyes spark. “It’s a little funny. Are you hungry?”
