Chapter 20 #2
“Hey!” Mom shouts from behind me. “Man friend or woman friend?”
I almost had a clean break.
“See you, Mom!” I shout, picking up my pace and practically sprinting to the van as the screen door clatters shut behind me.
The drive to Greyson’s is nice, through neighborhoods and then out some roads I haven’t been on before.
I turn down the tree-lined road. Larger properties take up acres—a house here, another one tucked back there.
And there it is, his driveway meeting the road with a dark green mailbox numbered for his address.
I turn onto it and wind slightly downhill until I arrive at the house, nestled among a copse of trees with woods spread out behind it, like a massive Lincoln Log cabin, only more elegant, all stained brown wood, dark green shutters, green tin roofing, and neat white trim.
A wraparound porch. Greyson has a wraparound porch. The whole place looks like you could eat off the ground—immaculate and tended, but still rogue and wild enough to be secluded. Just like him.
I park at the end of the wide driveway, which could easily hold ten or twelve cars.
And then he’s out the door, standing casually on the porch, wearing a T-shirt and jeans and looking like an advertisement for whatever he’s selling.
Barefoot. Greyson is barefoot. There’s something so raw about him here on his own property, shoeless and casual.
I’ll take ten of whatever product he’s peddling right now. Take my money. Sold.
His slow smile inches outward and his eyes crinkle at the corners. He stands in place, quietly watching me approach. I might be shaking just a little. Never have I been so completely held by someone’s gaze.
I stop in place, staring up at him from the base of the steps. A tingle zips through me.
“Hey,” he says. That succinct lift and fall of his brows adding just a touch of mischief to the word.
“Hey.” I look around. “So, this is your property.”
“Yeah.” He almost looks embarrassed. “This is home.”
Home.
“Want the tour?” he asks, casually, hands in pockets, eyes still fixed on me.
“Yes. I definitely want the tour.”
He smiles. “I’ve never given the tour, so we’ll wing it.”
“You’ve never … Don’t you have people over?”
“When my parents are up for a visit, they stay here. I never toured them. They just make themselves at home. And … yeah. My cleaning person comes every other week.”
“Your cleaning person?”
He shakes his head. “I do a lot of it myself, but sometimes I don’t want to spend my day off cleaning. So I hired a woman in town. She’s a middle-aged widow. Needed the income.”
“So you hired her to give her work to do.”
“I hired her to clean my house because I want time off.” He cocks a brow at me, daring me to tell him otherwise.
He hired her to give her a job. I know it. He knows it. I think I fall a little for him because of it. I’d have to spend hours trying to find one thing he does solely for himself. And yet, he lives out here all alone whenever he’s not on the ball field or at the station.
“Follow me,” he says, turning and walking back into the house, holding the door open for me.
I pass by him slowly, almost pausing, but walking through into the main room.
The ceiling is beamed and one whole wall is a stone fireplace. The colonial windows and french doors lead out to the porch off the side of the room. Greyson has a couch and loveseat and one comfortable-looking chair, all facing the fireplace in an arrangement around the substantial coffee table.
“My dad made that,” he says, tipping his chin toward the table.
“Your dad makes furniture?”
“He’s a craftsman. He builds things. Repairs things. Loves working with his hands. He used to make custom furniture as a hobby. Now he’s retired, but he still occasionally makes things.”
“I love knowing that.”
“Yeah. He’s a character. A little quiet until you get to know him. You’d like him. He’d like you too.”
A staircase runs up the side of the room opposite all the windows and french door. I glance at it.
“All the bedrooms and two baths are up there,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets again.
“Exactly how many bedrooms are we talking about here, Greyson?”
“Total?”
“Yes.” I chuckle.
“Six, including the one in the guest house.”
“The guest house.”
“It’s a little house out back. Kitchenette, bathroom, little living area and one bedroom. I could live there and be happy.”
“Yet, you live here.”
“I do.”
I laugh. “Greyson. This is just … wow.”
“Wow as in, you like it? Or wow, this guy should be put on a watch list.”
“Definitely the first,” I say. But then, for fun, I make a V out of my fingers and point at my eyes. “But I’m watching you.”
In his typical straightforward style, he says, “Good. I’m watching you too.”
“I know,” I tell him. My blush is immediate.
“Want to see upstairs? Or should we keep this a downstairs only tour?”
“You promised me the tour.”
“I did.”
He turns and starts up the stairs and I follow, stepping into each room.
Two of the bedrooms have queen beds, made up neatly—dressers, side tables, the usual, but all immaculate.
Another room has a TRX machine and weights—a workout room.
And the fourth bedroom is set up as an office.
The final room is Greyson’s. A large king bed with an impressive wood frame fills the room on one side, but then there’s a leather chair with a side table and a door leading to a master bath and huge walk-in closet.
I’m quiet, poking around each space. Memorizing what I see.
Each room provides a rare peek into him and his life.
We head back downstairs through the kitchen and family room and then out onto the back porch where the view of trees spreads infinitely down a sloping hill from the back of his large yard.
“This is all so stunning,” I tell him.
He’s looking at me when he says, “It is. Almost too much.”
“Stop doing that,” I say, another blush rising up my cheeks.
“What am I doing, exactly?”
“I think you know.”
“Ich bin unschuldig,” he says, his German as fluent and perfect as ever.
“You are far from innocent,” I tell him.
One side of his mouth quirks up. “Lunch?”
“You know me and food.”
“I do.”