Chapter 20 Harper #2
Actually, cookies do sound delicious. My mom hardly ever bakes, and everyone knows nothing tastes better than a fresh-baked anything. Especially cookies.
“It’s rude to turn down cookies,” I say with an innocent shrug. “And you know how I appreciate having good manners.”
“Fine,” he huffs. “But if this turns into an interrogation, you’re on your own.”
I grin as we step out of the car, his mom practically skipping back to the house.
“She’s adorable,” I whisper to him, wishing my mom was this warm and fuzzy.
He pouts. “Don’t let her fool you.”
Rudy runs over to greet us, wagging his tail happily. Thumps onto the ground so I can rub his belly, squirming and wiggling on the grass before Easton calls his name and ushers him inside.
Then.
I’m stepping inside, kicking my shoes off near the door, following Easton and his mom to the back of the house, the scent of cookies filling the air.
I wish my mom cared enough to bake. She’s too busy being pissed off at my dad all the time, though…
Easton’s mom gestures for us to take our places at the counter, setting a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies in front of us, then turning toward the fridge.
“Does anyone want milk?” she asks cheerfully. Easton groans at her enthusiasm, his mom and the dog practically vibrating with energy.
“No thank you, Mrs. Westermann.” I take a cookie and set it on a napkin, pulling it into two pieces. Take a small bite and close my eyes when it hits my tongue. “Wow. This is delicious.”
“Thanks.” She leans her hip against the counter. “Tell me about yourself, Harper. What year are you?”
His mother watches me so intently I squirm and wonder if she knows I kissed her son. My lips were on his lips! Her son’s!
Oh god.
I smile, trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach. “I’m a senior, too. School is good. I’m excited to graduate.”
“And college? Do you have a school picked out or are you doing something else?”
“You mean like a trade school? No—I was accepted to a few state schools, plus Florida.” I shrug.
“My parents don’t want me going that far, so I’m going to University of Illinois.
” I take another bite of cookie. Chew. Swallow before saying, “I haven’t decided on a major yet, though.
I don’t think they give degrees for doodling on notebooks and daydreaming. ”
“Well, they should!” she announces, and I decide right there that Mrs. Westermann is the cutest thing ever. A total delight.
She leans in. “I bet you and Easton are excited about prom.”
If only she knew. “Um. Prom’s definitely keeping us both busy. Easton does a lot of decorating.”
“Oh, really.” Her brows are in her hairline. “He’s decorating? When does he have time for that?”
Has he not told her where he’s been spending his free time?
“The theme is medieval times,” Easton grumbles, grabbing a cookie and jamming half of it into his mouth with zero regard for the crumbs scattering onto the counter. They fall everywhere. “We’ve been painting cardboard knights for what feels like forever.”
“Actually,” I mutter under my breath, trying to sound casual. “The theme is A Knight Under the Stars.” I glance down at the countertop, not wanting to outright correct him in front of his mom but also unable to stop myself, because…well, he’s wrong.
“Same thing.” Easton pauses mid-chew, raising an eyebrow at me. He swallows and shakes his head. “She’s in charge of the knights. And she keeps wanting to add rhinestones.”
His mom has been watching us, gaze shooting back and forth between his face and mine. Her eyes light up with amusement at the thought of her son making things shimmer. “Rhinestones, hey? Sounds sparkly.”
Easton rolls his eyes. “You know if it were up to me, we’d slap the paint on and call it a day. But Harper’s got this whole vision.” He holds his hands up and wiggles his fingers beside his face, basically implying that I’m over-the-top.
I scoff. “You mock me, but it’s the razzle-dazzle that they require. The knights need a little flair.”
“If you think they do, I’m sure they do.” Mrs. Westermann laughs softly. “Don’t let some silly boy pooh-pooh your ideas.”
“Oh, she doesn’t—trust me. Harper is in charge and she knows it.”
“Good.” His mother has no idea what he’s implying; the last thing we need is for her to find out the truth!
I seriously want to smack him.
Why are guys such morons?
“I will say this.” She pauses to take a bite of cookie.
“For a guy who spends the majority of his time playing hockey, he has a real knack for crafting—and an eye for decorating.” She pauses.
“Oh! Speaking of eyes, Easton, could you do me a favor and run to the she shed? I think I left my glasses on the workbench, but I’m too lazy to walk out there.
You can take Harper with you—I’m sure she’d love to have a look around. ”
She punctuates her sentence with a wink, and for a heartbeat I have to wonder: Is his mother playing matchmaker the same way Macy is?
“Ugh,” he groans—but there’s no actual protest. I’m sure he knows better than to argue when his mom; I sure cannot argue with mine.
I glance at Easton. “The she shed?” I want to hear more!
“You’ll see.” His mom beams at me, waving toward the window. “It’s just out back.” She gives Easton a pointed look that has him rising from the kitchen stool and gesturing for me to follow.
“All right, all right. Let’s go.”
I get up from the counter, giving his mom a grateful smile. “Thanks for the cookies, Mrs. Westermann.”
Rudy gets excited and hops up on my legs. I bend to give him a scratch behind his cute little ears.
“Anytime, Harper.” She lets out a breath. “Oh! Easton mentioned something about prom? And the two of you? If you’re going, can you make sure you let us know what color your dress is so we can order a bouquet?”
A bouquet? I haven’t thought of details like that.
“It’s pink,” I say. “My dress is powder pink.”
“Sounds perfect. I can’t wait to see it,” she gushes.
As Easton and I step outside, the late-afternoon sun casts a warm glow over the backyard.
Rudy darts ahead of us, immediately getting the zoomies and racing all over the fenced-in backyard, a tiny terror if I’ve ever seen one.
I laugh, trailing Easton toward a small replica of the big house, sort of checking out his backside (and by backside I mean butt. Is that so wrong?).
His mother’s shed is nestled at the far end of the yard; it’s a charming structure with a tiny porch and flower boxes under each of the two front windows.
It’s exactly the kind of place I’ve seen on social media—and judging by the outside, I imagine the inside is the sort of place every girl fantasizes about.
I don’t have to wait to find out.
Easton opens the door for me, gesturing for me to go in.
“Ladies first.”
I shoot him a smile as I step over the threshold, struck by how organized and colorful everything is. It’s soft pink—all of it—from top to bottom, light spilling in from the two big windows. Wood wainscoting. Bookshelves from floor to ceiling.
Pink sofa in the same shade against one wall.
A gold-and-crystal chandelier hangs in the center.
There’s also a desk—or workbench, as she called it—lined with jars of buttons, beads, and ribbons, fabric swatches hanging from hooks on the wall, and various crafting tools neatly arranged.
And the shelves? Full of books.
Lots and lots of books.
Romance novels, from the looks of it.
It’s like stepping into a Pinterest board.
“My gosh,” I breathe. “This place is literally amazing.”
“I guess.” He shrugs as if it were no big deal. “My dad has a man cave in the basement with trophies and memorabilia and shit, and she didn’t think it was fair for him to have his own space—so last year he built this.” He adjusts his stance. “Took him the entire summer.”
“She is so lucky.”
Easton shrugs again, and I begin to wonder if that’s his go-to response when he doesn’t know what to say.
“Do you ever hang out in here?”
“No. But my dad does sometimes.”
I nod slowly, walking to a bookshelf and gazing at all the titles, seeing several that I recognize. Still, I don’t touch anything, not wanting to intrude on her space.
“How often does she come out here?”
“No idea.”
Figures he wouldn’t know. Do guys pay attention to anything?
I continue inspecting the bookshelves; there are several delicately framed family photos—one of a young Easton in his hockey uniform in the center of a hockey rink. Another of him crouching on a dirt road, holding Rudy and wearing a fall-themed sweater.
My heart constricts. He looks so cute in sweaters!
Inwardly sighing, I wander to the long desk, where his mother’s reading glasses sit among what looks like a half-finished bead bracelet.
“Found the glasses.”
I pick up the black frames and face him, holding the spectacles in the air like a prize. Ta-da!
Easton is leaning against the doorframe, and I realize he’s been watching me examine his mother’s things.
“Thanks,” he says when I hold the glasses out to him, our fingers brushing when he takes them.
“This place is amazing,” I tell him again, swallowing whatever emotions I feel from being in this room. This tiny house full of her personality and hobbies. “So is your mom.”
“Yeah, she is.” He pauses, then adds with a nonchalant shrug, “So are you, though.”
My heart skips a beat. “You think I’m amazing?”
This is news to me, but I’ll take the compliment—it’s not as if he doles them out on a regular basis. In fact, we’re still on somewhat shaky ground; the kiss does not count. So if he wants to tell me I’m amazing, so be it.
We stand there a few moments, the quiet of the she shed wrapping around us like a blanket. The sun is warm, and in the yard beyond us, Rudy has managed to chill, basking in the afternoon solitude.
“I think you’re pretty amazing, too,” I tell him softly, and instantly regret being such a cheeseball.
His eyes widen. “Yeah? Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”
We stand there, inches apart, the air around us crackling.
Rudy barks.
Easton looks down my body, then back up at my face.
Into my eyes.
Down my body.
Up at my face.
Emboldened by some unknown pull, he takes a small step closer, closing the gap between us. In his mother’s shed, no less!
His hand moves as if on its own, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from my face. The touch is light. Gentle. Careful.
And it sends a shiver down my spine.
I should step back. That’s the right thing to do? So things don’t get more complicated?
“Easton, what are you doing?” I whisper.
“I have no idea.”