“It’s pink,” I say. “My dress is powder pink.”
“Sounds perfect. I can’t wait to see it,” she gushes.
As Easton and I step outside, the late-afternoon sun casts a warm glow over the backyard. Rudy darts ahead of us, immediately getting the zoomies and racing all over the fenced-in backyard, a tiny terror if I’ve ever seen one. I laugh, trailing Eastontoward a small replica of the big house, sort of checking out his backside (and by backside I mean butt.Is that so wrong?).
His mother’s shed is nestled at the far end of the yard; it’s a charming structure with a tiny porch and flower boxes under each of the two front windows. It’s exactly the kind of place I’ve seen on social media—and judging by the outside, I imagine the inside is the sort of place every girl fantasizes about.
I don’t have to wait to find out.
Easton opens the door for me, gesturing for me to go in.
“Ladies first.”
I shoot him a smile as I step over the threshold, struck by how organized and colorful everything is. It’s soft pink—all of it—from top to bottom, light spilling in from the two big windows. Wood wainscoting. Bookshelves from floor to ceiling.
Pink sofa in the same shade against one wall.
A gold-and-crystal chandelier hangs in the center.
There’s also a desk—or workbench, as she called it—lined with jars of buttons, beads, and ribbons, fabric swatches hanging from hooks on the wall, and various crafting tools neatly arranged.
And the shelves? Full of books.
Lots and lots of books.
Romance novels, from the looks of it.
It’s like stepping into a Pinterest board.
“My gosh,” I breathe. “This place is literally amazing.”
“I guess.” He shrugs as if it were no big deal. “My dad has a man cave in the basement with trophies and memorabilia and shit, and she didn’t think it was fair for him to have his own space—so last year he built this.” He adjusts his stance. “Took him the entire summer.”
“She is so lucky.”
Easton shrugs again, and I begin to wonder if that’s his go-to response when he doesn’t know what to say.
“Do you ever hang out in here?”
“No. But my dad does sometimes.”
I nod slowly, walking to a bookshelf and gazing at all the titles, seeing several that I recognize. Still, I don’t touch anything, not wanting to intrude on her space.
“How often does she come out here?”
“No idea.”
Figures he wouldn’t know. Do guys pay attention toanything?
I continue inspecting the bookshelves; there are several delicately framed family photos—one of a young Easton in his hockey uniform in the center of a hockey rink. Another of him crouching on a dirt road, holding Rudy and wearing a fall-themed sweater.
My heart constricts. He looks so cute in sweaters!
Inwardly sighing, I wander to the long desk, where his mother’s reading glasses sit among what looks like a half-finished bead bracelet.
“Found the glasses.”
I pick up the black frames and face him, holding the spectacles in the air like a prize. Ta-da!
