I’m standing in front of my kitchen window, staring out at the woods surrounding my house, slowly rotating my right shoulder. The joint pops, making a sharp sound so loud that it practically echoes through the house. My ribs are definitely bruised after the last game, and my left knee aches every time the temperature drops below forty, which is often now that we’re late in the season.
Monday night will be a prime-time matchup against Pittsburgh. The whole country will be watching, including every analyst and front-office executive. The pressure of Monday night games is like a low frequency that hums through my body and keeps me locked on game film until my eyes feel like they’re bleeding.
But tonight, the aches and pains don’t matter. Tonight, the film can wait.
Instead, the soft light from my massive stone fireplace in the great room illuminates my house, creating a kind of calm I need.The fireplace is wood-burning, and I spent a good half hour stacking seasoned oak until the flames were throwing amber heat across the wide-plank floors.
My house is all exposed timber and oversize leather furniture, designed for a man my size, but tonight, I’m doing something I’ve never done. I opened a bottle of red wine I couldn’t pronounce and cracked a window to let some of the crisp air from outside meet the warmth of the fire, creating the perfect temperature. And I did it all for Eva. The first woman besides my mama to come to my home.
When I see headlights sweep across my driveway in the reflection of the glass, my heart stutters against my ribs.
I walk over to my heavy cedar front door just as she reaches the top step, a weekend bag slung over her shoulder, her cheeks pink from the cold. She’s wearing a thick cream-colored sweater under her open puffer coat and black leggings and UGG boots, and her hair is twisted up in one of those messy-bun things that somehow looks incredibly sexy.
“Eva,” I say, leaning forward to kiss her cheek.
“Hey,” she says softly, her eyes shifting from my face to my house behind me. “Holy shit, Aston,” she mutters, a faint smile touching lips I’ve been thinking about for days. “Are you hosting a lumberjack convention, or do you have a kink for wood and leather I should know about?”
“Get in here, Honeybee,” I say with a laugh, shaking my head. I reach out and take her bag from her shoulder. My hand brushes her arm, and the simple contact sends a jolt through me. It’s like this every time with her. “You’re late.”
“The Lincoln Tunnel is a hazard zone on Friday nights—you know this,” she says, stepping into the house. She kicks off her boots, revealing big and fuzzy socks, and looks around. “All kidding aside, you have a beautiful home. And it smells … incredible in here. Cedar and oak. I half expected it to carry that protein-shake-and-sweat smell, like your house in college.”
“Hey now, give me some credit,” I say, closing the door andsetting her bag by the stairs. Then I step into her space, my height completely shadowing her as I reach out and touch her jawline with my thumb to tilt her face up. “Welcome to my home.”
She looks up at me, the flames from the fireplace reflecting in her green eyes. “Thank you for inviting me. I was wondering if this was some kind of secret fortress. We’ve really only been at my place.”
“Well I guess it is kind of like a fortress,” I say, my thumb tracing her bottom lip. “I wanted something that felt a little like home and private. But tonight, it’s just my house, and I’m happy to have you in it.”
“You gonna show me around or are we just gonna stand here in the foyer?” She wraps her hand around my wrist and pulls it away from her face, but she doesn’t drop my hand. Instead, she twines her fingers through mine and starts pulling me into the next room.
Twenty minutes later, we’re in the kitchen while I put the finishing touches on dinner.
“You don’t do anything halfway, do you?” Eva says, leaning back against the dark granite of the kitchen island, a glass of the fancy red wine I opened in her hands.
She watches me slice through a thick, perfectly aged cut of ribeye with effortless precision. I move around the kitchen comfortably because I love to cook when I have the time. And I know the exact temperature the cast-iron skillet heating on the stove should be, and the marinade I’d prepped earlier is made from scratch, a secret blend my Mama taught us.
I don’t think she’s all that surprised. She knows me well enough to know I wouldn’t be the type of guy who lived off premade meals. But as she watches me, a look of appreciation settles on her features.
“I grew up on a ranch with five brothers,” I rumble, tossing some butter into the pan, letting it sizzle. “If you don’t knowhow to handle a knife and flame by the time you’re ten, you might not eat.”
“Oh, I remember you knew how to cook,” she says with a smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she watches me sear the meat. “I’m just impressed by the execution. The layout, the prep work … it’s pretty fucking sexy, Griff.”
I laugh. “I’m glad you approve,” I say, catching her eye as I flip the steak.
She takes a slow sip of her wine, her gaze tracking the muscles of my arms. “You look a bit stiff though. Your shoulder bothering you again?”
“Nah, I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie, Aston.” She sets her glass down and walks around the island. She places her hands flat against my back, her warmth cutting through the fabric of my shirt as she moves up to my shoulders.
I inhale a deep breath as I feel her begin to work her thumbs into the knotted muscle between my shoulder blades, using a surprising amount of pressure.
“You don’t have to do this, Eva,” I mumble, though I let my head drop forward, a low groan escaping as she hits a brutal knot.
I turn in her grip, my hands finding her waist, then lifting her effortlessly until she’s sitting on the edge of the counter, her legs bracketing my hips. I move into the gap between her knees and look at her face.
“You know,” she whispers, her fingers trailing up my chest, tangling in the collar of my shirt, “I came all the way out here for a relaxing weekend, and somehow, I’m still the one doing all the heavy lifting.”
“Is that right? You call this heavy lifting?” I tease, leaning down until my lips brush against hers. “I would say I’m letting you have your way with me. That’s Texas hospitality.” Then I seal her mouth with mine and slide my tongue into her mouth and taste the rich berry of the wine on her tongue.
