His mouth moved—almost a smile.
She pointed at it. “There. That. Stop that.”
He looked away.
“Come on,” he said.
She followed, muttering under her breath.
That earned a low laugh.
It changed his whole face. Softening the hard, stoic lines of his jaw.
* * *
The ranch house was even more beautiful inside than it had looked from the outside.
Grant opened the door and stepped aside.
Izzy paused inside.
Wide-plank floors. Layered rugs in worn reds and tobacco tones. A massive stone fireplace anchored the room, flanked by shelves lined with books, framed photographs, and bronze horse figures. Leather chairs. A broad sofa. A long ranch table beneath an iron chandelier. A kitchen built for actual cooking.
Everything fit.
Her eyes moved across the room once more. “Okay.”
Grant shut the door. “Okay what?”
“This is… annoyingly nice.”
“It’s a house.”
“It is not just a house.”
He set her suitcase by the stairs. “You done?”
“Not even a little.”
She took a few steps farther in, noticing the small details—the softened edges, the quiet touches that didn’t belong to him alone.
She glanced at him.
“Your mother helped.”
A pause.
“Some.”
“I knew it.”
His eyes narrowed. “How?”
“Because you did not pick out that lamp.”
He looked toward it like it had personally offended him.
“She likes things finished,” he said.
