His family was always nice and welcoming whenever I saw them when they came to games or for a quick visit at Walker. But Ace and I were never serious enough for me to make it down to the family ranch in Texas.
I run my fingers over the top of the frame, and my throat tightens with emotion.
Next to the frame is a leather-bound book. I flip it open and see sketches of a large ranch home, the Griffith ranch logo, a horse, and some scribbled words with the initials AG at the bottom of the page.
The world might know Aston Griffith as number fifty-four for the New York Titans, a terrifying linebacker who breaks double-teams and has a smirk that makes women go wild. But here, in the quiet space of the house he’s made here, he’s just aboy who misses the wide-open Texas sky. A man who’s made a home in a different state but wants to keep his soul anchored to the earth just like how he grew up.
A floorboard groans, breaking the silence in the room.
I turn around just as Aston steps off the staircase. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of worn-out Wranglers, his hair damp from a shower, his chest bare and marked with tattoos. The bruises on his ribs are finally fading, but he still carries the ruggedness of a man who spends his weekends colliding with other humans.
His eyes, though, find me standing by his mantle, his leather-bound book in my hand. The curious expression on his face vanishes, replaced by a soft warmth that is meant entirely for me.
“You’re here,” he says, his eyes never leaving my face.
“Uh, yeah. The key worked,” I whisper, a breathless smile breaking across my face as I set the notebook down. “I was just looking around for a minute. I’ve never really looked around your place. I didn’t realize that you were an artist.”
“Artist? Nah, I just like to sketch out some plans from time to time.”
“Well, you’re really good,” I say, smiling.
“Thanks, Honeybee.”
He closes the distance between us in three long strides. He doesn’t say a word; he just reaches out, his hands coming up to cradle my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks. He leans down, his mouth meeting mine in a deep, slow kiss that tastes of mint.
There’s no rush. No frantic urgency. This is just a man and a woman wanting to be in each other’s space.
“Your lips are still cold from outside,” he murmurs against my lips, his hands sliding down to wrap around my waist, pulling me flush against his bare chest.
“I brought the steaks,” I say, my hands sliding up his back, feeling the ridges of muscle and the heat of his skin. “Should we have an early dinner?”
“Fuck the steaks,” he grumbles, burying his face in my neck, inhaling deeply. “Let’s just stay here for a minute.”
“Stay here? Like hugging?”
“Yeah, I just want to feel you in my arms. I know it’s only been a few days since we saw each other, but I missed you, and I just want to hold you for a minute.”
“Okay,” I breathe, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him closer.
A few minutes later, we make our way to the kitchen, the groceries in Aston’s hand.
“I’m cooking.” I push his chest with my palms until he relents and sits on one of his barstools across the island. I open his fridge and see some Lone Stars, so I grab one for him and hand it to him, and he smiles.
“Do you have an iron skillet?” I ask.
“Yep, it’s in the cabinet to the left of the stove,” he says, pointing with the neck of his beer.
I pull out the skillet, set it on the commercial-grade range, and turn on the burner. I move around his kitchen with a quiet familiarity, finding the salt and pepper and the fresh sprigs of rosemary he has in the refrigerator.
We talk about nothing while I cook, but every time I look up, I see him watching me with a soft smile on his face.
Not the way a guy looks at a girl he’s banging—not the hungry look that says,I want to fuck you on every surface of this kitchen. Which I wouldn’t mind, for the record. Instead, he watches me with a quiet reverence, his eyes tracking the way I’m moving, the way I chop veggies, the way I laugh when the butter starts to sizzle in the hot iron, creating its own little tune.
And I watch him too.
“What’s on your mind, Honeybee?” he asks, a crooked smile touching his lips.
“Nothing,” I say, turning the steaks. “Your home fits you. I was looking at the family pictures on the mantle.”
