“’Kay.” He stood and walked outside.
“Goodbye,” I called after him, then turned my attention to the cooler. “Nice to see you too. And thanks. I did do a great job cleaning. How kind of you to notice.”
“Talking to yourself?”
I jumped at Easton’s voice. “I thought you left.”
He hefted a tote in the air. “Wine. From my grandma.”
“Carol gets me.” I stood and took the tote from him, setting it on the counter. Then I waited, assuming he’d actually leave this time unless there were more gifts in his truck.
But he didn’t leave. Easton walked into the living room and ran a hand through that thick, soft hair as he glanced around. He’d traded his normal, long-sleeved plaid shirt for a fitted thermal. The textured cotton stretched across his biceps, showcasing the strength of his arms. It molded to his torso and that flat stomach.
If he’d just smile, a little, he’d be so incredibly handsome. Gruff and stoic worked for Easton. The man was a challenge and an enigma. His serious composure gave nothing away and that was a turn-on for a woman like me who enjoyed the uphill battle.
I’d learned in my week here that he didn’t have a wife or girlfriend, but I had no doubt the local ladies swooned over his rugged, somber exterior. But a smile . . . damn, I wanted to see a smile.
I’d seen it once—eleven years ago when he’d taken me to his bed, and I hadn’t forgotten it in all this time.
Easton’s smile was unmatched. It was rare. Maybe the reason it was so special was because he gave it to so few people.
“Looks good in here.”
My hand flew to my heart and I feigned surprise. “Was that . . . a compliment? Did you actually say something nice to me?”
His lips pursed into a thin line.
“Oh, relax.” I turned to the cupboards and opened the one where I’d found glasses earlier. “Would you like to stay for a glass of wine? Or has five minutes in my presence irritated you enough to leave me alone for a week?”
“I don’t drink wine.”
“Of course, you don’t.” It probably went against the cowboy code to drink anything but milk, water, black coffee, beer and whiskey neat.
“But I’ll take a glass of water.”
Seriously? I’d been joking in the invite. Why would he take it? What was he up to? I didn’t ask as I filled his glass from the tap, but I kept an eye on him as I uncorked a bottle of Cabernet. I’d thank Carol later for including the opener in my tote bag.
“Here you go.” I handed him his water as I joined him in the living room.
Easton took it and sat on the couch, tossing one long arm over the back. Then he lifted an ankle, crossing it over a knee.
“What do you want?” I sat in the chair and cut right to the chase. Easton wasn’t here to be friendly.
“You. Gone.”
“You’ll get your wish in three months.”
He studied me, his gaze full of scrutiny.
“What? No reminders that I won’t make it?” I asked.
“No. You know how I feel.”
“Yes, you’ve made it crystal clear. So I’d say we’re at a stalemate.”
“Guess so.” He drained his water with three long gulps. The bob of his Adam’s apple was mesmerizing.
I expected him to leave with the glass empty, but once again, he stayed seated, settling deeper into the couch. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“No.” He looked around the room, his eyes taking it all in. “When Cash and I were little, Dad would take us camping here. Boys only. We’d go fishing at the creek. He’d build a fire and we’d have a cookout outside. I haven’t been inside in ages. Every time I come back, it seems smaller.”
Why was he telling me this? Again, I didn’t verbalize my question. Because when Easton wasn’t snapping at me or barking something condescending, I soaked up his every word. Especially if it had a thing to do with his youth.
Because his childhood was my dream.
“Do you know how to use that?” He pointed a finger at the wood stove in the corner.
“Uh . . .” I glanced around, searching the walls for a thermostat. There wasn’t one. “No. I don’t.”
“I’ll show you.”
“I can figure it out.”
“And burn down a Greer family legacy? I’m not taking that chance.” He stood and walked to the stove. “Come here.”
“Ask me nicely.”
He shot a look over his shoulder that wasn’t exactly a glare, but it wasn’t polite.
I enjoyed a warm house too much to annoy him, so I set my wine on the coffee table and joined him in a crouch by the stove. There was a small stack of wood and a basketful of newspaper beside it, along with a long-handled lighter.
Easton showed me how to use the paper and kindling to get it going, then gave me instruction on how to set the airflow. Within minutes, the fire was roaring, chasing away any of the chill in the air.
“Thanks.” I stood and went to close the windows.
I left the door open, assuming he’d leave at any minute. Then I went to unpack the cooler, stacked full of plastic containers. “She made all this in a day? It’s more food than I’ll eat alone in a month.”
Easton crossed the room, closing the front door, and joined me at the fridge. “Want some help?”
“Unpacking? No, I’ve got it.”
“No, not unpacking. Eating.”
I blinked up at him as he leaned a shoulder against the fridge. “You want to stay for dinner?”
“Mom made my favorite ham and potato casserole. She only makes it for special occasions and because you’re our guest, you got it.”
Ah. So that was why he was here. “Jealous?”
“If you’re not going to eat all this food, I’ll take that casserole off your hands.”
“Too bad. It’s mine.” And I was going to eat it first. Any meal that made Easton act remotely civil must be outstanding.
He shoved off the fridge. “Come on. Give it to me so someone who will actually appreciate it will eat it.”
“Excuse me?” I surged to my feet. “I don’t think you get to tell me what I appreciate. For a guy who has never gone hungry a day in his life, I can assure you, I appreciate each and every meal I eat.”
Easton winced and the annoyed look on his face vanished. “Sorry.”
I crossed my arms over my chest.
“That casserole is important.” He sighed. “To my family.”
“A casserole.”
“Yes. It was my grandmother’s recipe. My mom’s mom. She died before I was born in a house fire. Not much survived the blaze except some of her jewelry that was in a fire-safe box and a few recipe cards she kept in a metal tin. That casserole was Mom’s favorite too. The reason she only makes it for special occasions is because it’s hard for her to see my grandma’s handwriting.”
My anger vanished. “And she made it for me.”
“She made it for you. So if you’re not going to eat it and fuss over it and make sure Mom knows exactly how much you appreciate the heartache it took for her to make you that meal, then give it to me so I can.”