“Last night’s windstorm took down quite a few branches around the house. I’m just cutting them down to size.”
He pulls at the safety goggles and props them on his forehead. Why is that move so attractive?
“I can do the rest when you leave,” he says.
“No. I’ll help. Put me to work.”
He cocks a brow at me.
“Greyson, don’t you start in with something about women not being able to …”
He cuts me off. “I wasn’t about to say anything about you not being able to do anything. I’ve seen you bench press, and you hold your own on any job. I just didn’t know if this was how you wanted to spend your morning.”
“I want to spend my morning with you. If it’s cutting branches, then that’s what we’re doing.”
He smiles. “Let me get you some goggles.”
We spend the next hour dragging branches to the side of his house and then we take turns using the chainsaw to cut them into sections.
I’m lugging a branch that’s almost twice as long as I am over to Greyson when a strong gust of wind blows through his property. The sky darkens almost instantly. There’s a flash of lightning followed by an immediate clap of thunder. I drop the branch and latch on to Greyson’s bicep.
“It’s going to rain.” The words aren’t out of my mouth before the water starts coming down in sheets.
We stare at one another through the downpour and laughter bubbles up.
With the chainsaw in one hand, Greyson grabs my hand with his other and we make a dash for the porch, getting soaked as we run.
We’re turning the corner for the front porch steps when my foot lands in a muddy patch with a squelching sound. I slip, going down despite the grip he has on me. Greyson’s holding me by one arm like a rag doll, and I’m covered in mud from the waist down.
Tears of my laughter merge with the rain on my cheeks.
I look up at him and he’s laughing—hair drenched, eyes crinkled, mouth open wide. Our eyes lock and his face momentarily softens.
He sets the chainsaw on the steps, and in one fluid movement, he hoists me into a fireman’s carry and hauls me up to the front door. My stomach presses into his shoulder. My head rests upside down against his back.
But he doesn’t stop at the front door to let me walk on my own.
“Greyson!” I shout through my laughter. “Put me down! I can walk!”
He grunts and pivots, heading around the wraparound porch toward the back door.
He doesn’t even set me down there. And I’ve stopped complaining. His hand has a firm grip on my wrist and hisarm is across my thighs. I no longer want down. As a matter of fact, Greyson can just carry me through life.
I laugh quietly to myself. He makes me feel nine years younger—like I’m that girl in Munich with the world and life wide open to her.
Inside the mudroom, he deposits me on the dryer.
“Stay here,” he says, carefully removing my goggles and setting them next to his.
“Greyson! I’m soaked. And muddy.”
“Hallie, I’ve got you.” A shiver runs through me, and it’s not only because I’m wet and chilly.
He shucks his shirt, tossing it into the washer, kicks off his boots and turns to leave. “I’m grabbing towels.”
He pauses. “Don’t move.”
I start to argue, but he gives me a look that tells me he’s not taking no for an answer.
