I pass by him slowly, almost pausing, but walking through into the main room.
The ceiling is beamed and one whole wall is a stone fireplace. The colonial windows and french doors lead out to the porch off the side of the room. Greyson has a couch and loveseat and one comfortable-looking chair, all facing the fireplace in an arrangement around the substantial coffee table.
“My dad made that,” he says, tipping his chin toward the table.
“Your dad makes furniture?”
“He’s a craftsman. He builds things. Repairs things. Loves working with his hands. He used to make custom furniture as a hobby. Now he’s retired, but he still occasionally makes things.”
“I love knowing that.”
“Yeah. He’s a character. A little quiet until you get to know him. You’d like him. He’d like you too.”
A staircase runs up the side of the room opposite all the windows and french door. I glance at it.
“All the bedrooms and two baths are up there,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets again.
“Exactly how many bedrooms are we talking about here, Greyson?”
“Total?”
“Yes.” I chuckle.
“Six, including the one in the guest house.”
“The guest house.”
“It’s a little house out back. Kitchenette, bathroom, little living area and one bedroom. I could live there and be happy.”
“Yet, you live here.”
“I do.”
I laugh. “Greyson. This is just … wow.”
“Wow as in, you like it? Or wow, this guy should be put on a watch list.”
“Definitely the first,” I say. But then, for fun, I make a V out of my fingers and point at my eyes. “But I’m watching you.”
In his typical straightforward style, he says, “Good. I’m watching you too.”
“I know,” I tell him. My blush is immediate.
“Want to see upstairs? Or should we keep this a downstairs only tour?”
“You promised me the tour.”
“I did.”
He turns and starts up the stairs and I follow, stepping into each room. Two of the bedrooms have queen beds, made up neatly—dressers, side tables, the usual, but all immaculate. Another room has a TRX machine and weights—a workout room. And the fourth bedroom is set up as an office. The final room is Greyson’s. A large king bed with an impressive wood frame fills the room on one side, but then there’s a leather chair with a side table and a door leading to a master bath and huge walk-in closet. I’m quiet, poking around each space. Memorizing what I see. Each room provides a rare peek into him and his life.
We head back downstairs through the kitchen and family room and then out onto the back porch where the view of trees spreads infinitely down a sloping hill from the back of his large yard.
“This is all so stunning,” I tell him.
He’s looking at me when he says, “It is. Almost too much.”
“Stop doing that,” I say, another blush rising up my cheeks.
