“Okay then, Miss Mysterious.” She eyes me. “Rain check?”
“Definitely. Let’s plan on some time together tomorrow.”
“Sounds good. But don’t blow me off. I don’t give second dates to people who blow me off.”
“I won’t. Think of something you want to do. Avery took me to a fun place for lunch. Maybe we can go there.”
“I’d love that.”
I pick up my purse and head toward the door.
“Hey!” Mom shouts from behind me. “Man friend or woman friend?”
I almost had a clean break.
“See you, Mom!” I shout, picking up my pace and practically sprinting to the van as the screen door clatters shut behind me.
The drive to Greyson’s is nice, through neighborhoods and then out some roads I haven’t been on before. I turn down the tree-lined road. Larger properties take up acres—a house here, another one tucked back there. And there it is, his driveway meeting the road with a dark green mailbox numbered for his address.
I turn onto it and wind slightly downhill until I arrive at the house, nestled among a copse of trees with woods spread out behind it, like a massive Lincoln Log cabin, only more elegant, all stained brown wood, dark green shutters, green tin roofing, and neat white trim.
A wraparound porch. Greyson has a wraparound porch. The whole place looks like you could eat off the ground—immaculate and tended, but still rogue and wild enough to be secluded. Just like him.
I park at the end of the wide driveway, which could easily hold ten or twelve cars. And then he’s out the door, standing casually on the porch, wearing a T-shirt and jeans and looking like an advertisement for whatever he’s selling. Barefoot. Greyson is barefoot. There’s something so raw about him here on his own property, shoeless and casual. I’ll take ten of whatever product he’s peddling right now. Take my money. Sold.
His slow smile inches outward and his eyes crinkle at the corners. He stands in place, quietly watching me approach. I might be shaking just a little. Never have I been so completely held by someone’s gaze.
I stop in place, staring up at him from the base of the steps. A tingle zips through me.
“Hey,” he says. That succinct lift and fall of his brows adding just a touch of mischief to the word.
“Hey.” I look around. “So, this is your property.”
“Yeah.” He almost looks embarrassed. “This is home.”
Home.
“Want the tour?” he asks, casually, hands in pockets, eyes still fixed on me.
“Yes. I definitely want the tour.”
He smiles. “I’ve never given the tour, so we’ll wing it.”
“You’ve never … Don’t you have people over?”
“When my parents are up for a visit, they stay here. I never toured them. They just make themselves at home. And … yeah. My cleaning person comes every other week.”
“Your cleaning person?”
He shakes his head. “I do a lot of it myself, but sometimes I don’t want to spend my day off cleaning. So I hired a woman in town. She’s a middle-aged widow. Needed the income.”
“So you hired her to give her work to do.”
“I hired her to clean my house because I want time off.” He cocks a brow at me, daring me to tell him otherwise.
He hired her to give her a job. I know it. He knows it. I think I fall a little for him because of it. I’d have to spend hours trying to find one thing he does solely for himself. And yet, he lives out here all alone whenever he’s not on the ball field or at the station.
“Follow me,” he says, turning and walking back into the house, holding the door open for me.
