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“Beers are in the fridge,” I say helpfully. He nods but doesn’t make any moves to leave the very large space he occupies next to me. His muscles stretch the fabric of his shirt, and his eyes glisten in the tanned skin of his face. He’s quite possibly the most beautiful man I’ve ever looked at. Which sounds crazy when I live in a world where Henry Cavill and Jason Momoa exist, but it’s the truth. Not to mention, this time, he’s sporting this full beard, and it makes my hands tingle with the urge to run my fingers through it.
The intensity of his good looks is so strong, so vibrant, so right there and in my face, that it’s nearly confusing.
Like, how is it possible to look like that? Like him? There has to be some kind of law against it. If not, there should be.
He shines too bright, so much so that I have to look away, pick up the first pot from the pile, and run it under the piping-hot water.
But while I proceed to scrub the pot with soap, he makes zero move to leave the kitchen.
In fact, he does the opposite. Garrett grabs the towel from beside the sink, unfolds it, and lifts the corners of his mouth in time with his hands. “Lay one on me.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, still scrubbing the pot between my hands and trying not to get lost in the deep, bottomless glaciers of his icy-blue eyes.
“I’m prepped and ready to do my finest drying. Lay one on me.”
“You want to help me dry dishes?” I ask, mystified. I don’t think I’ve ever known a man in my entire thirty-one years of life who has volunteered his services at the kitchen sink after a big, messy meal.
“Of course. I wasn’t here early enough to help you cook, but the least I can do is help you clean up.”
I snort. I can’t help it. His eyes pinch in confusion.
“I’m sorry. I just… Where do you hide your horn?” I question, and it only puzzles him more.
“My what?” he asks with a chuckle.
“Your unicorn horn. It should be sticking out of your forehead, I’d think.”
His laugh is so personal, so rich, I feel it all the way in the center of my chest. “Oh, come on. Why is helping with the dishes such a big deal?”
I shake my head with a kooky smile and then look to the window in front of us. Pete and Phil are both in lawn chairs in the front yard, beers in hand. And my sisters are busy keeping my niece and nephews out of trouble. Though, Addy and Aiden, Cara’s toddlers, appear to be winning the trouble competition, my sister basically chasing them from one end of the front yard to the other.
I don’t say anything else, but then again, when I look up to find Garrett’s gaze has followed mine, narrowing in on the scene playing out in my dad’s front yard, I’m pretty sure I don’t have to.
“My mother taught me manners,” he says decisively and takes the just-washed pot from my hands and begins to dry it.
“You have a mother?”
He laughs. “Were you expecting some kind of spontaneous conception?”
“No, sorry. I… Well, obviously, you have a mother. But you talk to her? She’s still alive?”
“Yes. I still talk to her.” His eyes turn sympathetic and kind. “Cap’s mentioned your mom had MS and that she passed away before I joined the station. I’m sorry.”
I nod and suck my lips into my mouth. Normally, talking about my mother’s passing or her multiple sclerosis diagnosis doesn’t get me too worked up. I mean, it was almost fifteen years ago. But for some reason, discussing it with Garrett seems deeply personal.
“Thank you. It was manageable for the most part. But she had a flare-up that led to pneumonia, and…” I shrug. Naturally, the ooey, gooey feeling that follows whenever I talk about my mom makes me jump straight into a rambling mess of babble. “So, your mom…is she local or does she, like, raise gorillas in the Congolese rain forest or something? I mean, not that she has to be in the Congo if she’s not local, but like, is she what you’d expect from your average grandma figure, or is she—”
“She lives near Lake Tahoe,” Garrett interrupts with a smile. “No gorillas that I’m aware of, but no overtly pushy grandma tendencies either. Somewhere in the middle.”
“I kind of like overly pushy grandmas. I’ve never been around one, but they seem fun.”
“Those two things are probably related.”
“What two things?” I ask, handing off a cleaned casserole dish.
“The not being around them and them seeming fun.”
I bite my lip to keep my smile from growing out of control.
Garrett bumps me gently with the side of his arm, his hands still busy drying the dishes I’ve washed, and just like that, any ounce of smile control goes right out the window.
