I barely recognize him. He’s usually so dour and somber. Something about my daughter unleashes this side to him that I don’t quite know what to do with.
Mia marches into the kitchen with Henry at her heels.
Mom pops out from her room. “Oh, Coach G, you’re here.”
I roll my eyes when Greyson turns to greet Mom. As if she didn’t know he came in. I think the neighbors heard the commotion.
She steps up to Greyson and pulls him into a hug. He stiffens for a second, but then he wraps his arms around her and allows her to fully squeeze him.
“Okay,” I say, probably louder than necessary. “Let’s get you something to drink.”
“Do you like sweet tea?” Mom asks Greyson, as if it’s a rite of passage.
“I like tea,” he says. “I’ll take whatever you’re serving.”
“Hallie makes it the old-fashioned way. She’s quite the domestic goddess, really.”
Greyson’s brows raise and I stifle a groan.
“I make tea,” I say. “It’s not a five-course gourmet meal. Last time I checked, no goddesses lived under this roof.”
I turn and walk toward the kitchen to make sure Mia’s coming along with putting away the ice cream. And, also, I don’t exactly need Greyson studying the blush rising up my neck.
“This house doesn’t have a proper dining room,” Mom announces to Greyson. “We’ve got the island or the kitchen breakfast area. I have a hunch that Hallie’s bedroom was the dining room in years gone by.”
“I love these older homes,” Greyson remarks, looking around the kitchen at the historic details. He glances out the windows down the long back yard. “And your garage was probably a carriage house out back.”
“That’s just what I thought,” Mom says with the tone of a besotted schoolgirl.
I pull the ribs onto a platter, and pull out a knife to separate them.
“May I?” Greyson steps up next to me.
My breath hitches. I hope he doesn’t hear it.
We’re in close proximity all the time for work. Yesterday, we were actually tangled up on top of Cletus.
This feels different.
He’s in my home.
“Sure. Yes,” I say, stepping aside and busying myself with the salad and grabbing a serving spoon to stick into the potatoes.
“Everything smells great,” Greyson says, his voice back to that more familiar gruffness.
“I’m starving,” I tell him.
“You burn a lot of calories.”
“I do. And I can’t remember if I ate lunch, so there’s that too.”
Greyson washes his hands and I try not to stare at him while he does.
Mom and Mia don’t try not to stare. They just stare and stare, like they’ve never seen a man wash his hands before. Thankfully, Greyson either doesn’t notice or is being polite and pretends not to notice.
We eventually get all the food to the table and the four of us sit around the table digging into the serving bowls and filling our plates. Henry sits right next to Greyson.
A simple, “Down, boy,” from Greyson and Henry falls at his feet and sets his moppy head on his extended paws.
