6. Cat #3
His voice drops just enough to make my pulse trip. “Probably. But I hope you don’t.”
Next stop, the grocery store. I thought it would be safer here.
Groceries are practical. Groceries don’t look at me like they want to kiss me.
I move through the aisles faster than necessary, grabbing everything needed for a steak dinner, tomatoes, lettuce, shredded carrots, onions, mushrooms, and potatoes, while Easton follows with the cart, sneaking in Fruity Pebbles and Captain Crunch and looking far too pleased with himself when I catch him.
“Breakfast,” he says.
“That is not breakfast. You have the pallet of a six year old,” I shoot back, and I’m smiling before I realize it.
Easton grins. “We're never too old for cereal.”
“Well, look at this.” The voice scrapes my nerves like nails on a chalkboard.
My smile vanishes so fast it almost hurts. My fingers go still on the cart handle, and beside me, Easton goes quiet in a way that makes the air change.
Lana steps around the endcap like she has been waiting for a spotlight.
Her blonde hair is curled, her lips glossy, and her expression sharpened into the kind of smile that never reaches her eyes.
She looks at me slowly, taking in the paint on my jeans, the messy knot of my hair, the cart full of discount produce, and every bit of confidence I had a second ago starts looking for somewhere to hide.
“Cat,” she says, all sugar and poison. “Still trying to turn that money pit into something people will actually pay to stay in?”
The words hit exactly where she aims them. For one awful second, I see the peeling paint, the crooked rail, the bills stacked on Grandpa’s desk. Then I lift my chin because I will be damned if Lana sees the effect her words have on me. “Still mistaking snobbery for a personality?”
Easton makes a sound that might be a cough or a laugh. Lana’s eyes flick to him, and just like that, I no longer exist.
“And who are you?” she asks, her voice dipping into something breathier, softer, fake. I can tell the second she recognizes Easton and decides to pretend she doesn’t. “I definitely would’ve remembered seeing you around.”
Easton does not move closer to her. He does not smile. His hand settles at the small of my back, warm and steady—not possessive so much as present, like he is reminding me I am not standing there alone. He looks at Lana like he has dealt with her kind a million times and found every version boring.
“Not interested,” he says.
Lana blinks. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not fuckin’ interested.” His tone is flat. “And if your plan was to make yourself look better by tearing Cat down, it didn’t work. It just made you look like a shallow piece of shit.”
Heat floods Lana’s cheeks. Her mouth parts, then snaps shut.
She looks at me, and for one glorious second, she has nothing to say.
I could be the bigger person. I could spare her further embarrassment.
I have no interest in doing either. “You take care now, Lana,” I say, loading the potatoes into the cart as if she is already an afterthought.
“Come on, baby.” Easton turns the cart before Lana can say another word, his shoulder brushing mine as we head toward the checkout. I feel that small touch everywhere.
“That was rude,” I say once we are far enough away.
“Yep.”
“You don’t even know her.”
“I know how she talked to you.”
The answer lands low in my chest. I look down at the groceries because looking at him feels risky. “I can handle Lana.”
“Never said you couldn’t.” Easton’s voice gentles, but there is still steel under it. “Doesn’t mean I have to stand there and let her try.”
For a second, I forget we are in a grocery store. I forget the cart, the cashier, and the people milling around. All I know is Easton standing beside me, steady and solid, as if choosing my side is the easiest thing he has done all day.
“Thank you,” I say, softer than I mean to.
His gaze holds mine. “Anytime, baby.”
On the drive back, neither of us says much.
But the silence is different now—warmer and thicker, full of all the things we are not saying while the bags rustle in the backseat and the Bronco eats up the road toward the ranch.
When the house comes into view, sunlight settling over the barn, I feel the usual rush of panic and determination. Underneath it, there is something else.
Hope, maybe.
Or trouble.
With Easton, I am starting to think they might be the same thing.
By the time we pull up to the house, I have almost convinced myself that the moment in the grocery store did not rearrange something inside me. Almost. Then Easton carries in three bags at once, sets them on the counter with far too much care, and reaches for the small hardware-store sack.
“Where’s the leaking faucet?” he asks.
I blink at him. “You don’t have to fix it.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
He gives me a look over his shoulder, one brow lifting. “Because it’s leaking.”
The simplicity of that answer should not affect me, but it does.
I am used to people offering help in big, vague ways: let me know if you need anything, call if it gets bad.
Easton does not say any of that. He just picks up the washers and heads down the hall like the problem is already his because I mentioned it out loud.
I show him to the bathroom. He drops to one knee in front of the cabinet, opens the doors to under the sink, and studies the pipes with the same focus he gave Blue’s mane this morning, like whatever is in front of him deserves his full attention.
“You really don’t have to do this,” I say again, because apparently I am determined to make myself sound ungrateful.
“Red.” He reaches for the wrench, his mouth curving. “I know.”
Water ticks into the basin, each drop loud in the small room. I lean against the doorframe and watch his hands work, broad fingers moving with surprising precision. He shuts off the valve, loosens the fitting, and catches the last sputter of water in a towel I shove at him before he can ask.
His eyes flick up to mine, amused. “See? I’m helpful.”
“Never doubted that for a second.” The words should be nothing, just another bit of banter, but after Lana’s words in the grocery aisle, after the way she tried to shrink me down to the size of every fear I carry, Easton’s certainty feels dangerous in a completely different way.
I cross my arms over my chest. “You know I could’ve handled it.”
He stills for half a second, then goes back to tightening something beneath the sink. “I know.”
“Then why step in?”
This time, he looks up. There is no smirk on his face, no lazy charm to hide behind. Just Easton, steady and serious, kneeling on my bathroom floor with a wrench in his hand like this conversation matters as much as the leak. “Because being strong doesn’t mean you should have to stand there alone.”
My throat works around nothing. I look away first, focusing on the tiny chip in the doorframe paint because it is easier than looking at him.
“I’m not used to that,” I admit.
“To what?”
I pull in a breath that does not make it very far. “Someone standing there.”
The faucet chooses that moment to give one last pathetic drip. Then nothing. Easton reaches up and turns the handle. Water runs smoothly, then stops when he shuts it off. No drip. No stubborn little tick against the porcelain.
“There,” he says quietly. “One less thing for you to work on.”
I laugh, but it comes out too thin. It is a faucet. A stupid, leaking faucet. But for the first time in a long time, something broken in this house got fixed without me having to beg, barter, or bleed myself dry to make it happen.
Easton rises, wiping his hands on the towel. The bathroom is suddenly too small for both of us. Or maybe he is just too much in it. His shoulder nearly brushes mine when he steps closer, and I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
His gaze drops to my mouth for one devastating second before coming back to my eyes. “Anytime, baby.”
There is that word again, softer this time. Less teasing. More of a promise. Easton’s hand lifts, slow and deliberate, giving me every chance to move away, but I don’t. His knuckles brush a curl back from my cheek, barely a touch, and still my whole body is quiet.
From somewhere down the hall, Grandpa calls my name.
I jump like I have been caught doing something far worse than standing in a bathroom with a man who just fixed a leak.
Easton’s mouth curves, but he steps back this time, slow and deliberate, giving me room I did not ask for and am not sure I want. “Guess I’ll put the tools up.”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice uneven. “Good idea.”
He slips past me into the hall, close enough that the warmth of him brushes my shoulder and then is gone. I stand there a second too long, listening to the quiet faucet, to Grandpa calling again from the kitchen, and to the uneven beat of my own heart.
When I finally step into the hall, Easton is already at the back door with the toolbox in one hand. He glances over his shoulder, and for once, he does not smirk. He just looks at me like there is something he wants to say but chooses not to.
I am grateful for that.
“Thanks again,” I manage.
His fingers tighten once around the toolbox handle. “Anytime, Red.”
Then he is gone, leaving behind the faint scent of soap and sawdust, the stopped drip, and the unsettling truth that the house feels quieter without him in it.