The two of us are silent for a beat before I decide to ask my next question. "How come your parents didn't want you going into music?"
"The gist of it is my parents had a different vision of what they wanted for their kids. Both my parents are respectable doctors. Emerson followed in their footsteps and now owns her own practice in the town where she lives. I dropped out of medical school and chased music."
"Somehow, I can't see that."
Easton quirks a brow. "Don't let my looks fool ya, Red. I graduated high school early and was at the top of my class when I did."
"I didn't. I… that's not what I meant," I say with frustration.
"Relax, Red. I know what you meant." Easton laughs at my attempt to backpedal.
"What I meant is, I've watched videos of you onstage. I can tell how much you love what you do and can't imagine you doing something else." I throw the towel in my hand at his face. He, of course, catches it midair.
"Your sister, where does she live?" I continue.
"She is in Polson with her husband and daughter."
I smile. "Lev mentioned you were going to visit her and your niece, that it was her birthday."
The mention of his niece brings a wide smile to Easton's face. "Yeah. I never miss one of Lydia's birthdays. I may not get to see my family a lot, but there are some occasions I make no exception for."
For some reason, this revelation about Easton warms my heart. I'm starting to think all my preconceived notions were way off base. "And her husband, what does he do?" I ask.
Easton looks at me, then looks away, then back at me like he's hesitant to answer my question.
"Quinn is a member of the Kings of Retribution."
I cock my head to the side. "Um, is that a motorcycle club?"
"It is," is all he says.
"Wow. Okay. That’s, um… cool." I don't really know what else to say. My knowledge of motorcycle clubs is zero. I hear people talk about MCs, but I'm not one to listen to rumors.
"The Kings are cool, and my sister has never been happier than she is right now. All the other shit doesn't factor in."
"You're right."
After the heavy conversation on both ends, Easton and I finish our walk back to the house in comfortable silence. "Thanks for helping me with Blue," I tell him once we step up onto the porch.
"You're welcome, baby."
I jump, and a gasp escapes my mouth when his words brush the shell of my ear.
Oh God, there's that word again.
"You okay?" he asks, taking one of my curls between his fingers, and I shiver. Easton doesn't miss my reaction, either, as I watch his pupils dilate beneath his hooded eyes.
"Yes." My voice comes out breathless. "I just… I…" I begin to stutter, putting some distance between us. Easton's presence, his smell, the way he dominates my attention—it all has me confused, and worst of all… he knows it. "I'm going to get cleaned before I head into town." I step away and toss a wave over my shoulder as I make a hasty retreat. Easton just stands there while leaning against the railing as he watches me walk away.
"See you later, baby," he calls out.
I make it all the way upstairs before I let myself breathe. Or try to. My heart is still tripping over itself, my skin still buzzing from the way his voice had brushed against my ear. Baby. One little word should not have the power to make my knees feel unreliable, but apparently my body has decided to betray me where Easton Evans is concerned. I tell myself a shower will fix it. Then clean clothes. Then work. Work is safe. Work is familiar. Work does not lean against the porch railings, looking at me like he knows exactly how badly he is getting under my skin.
I am halfway through convincing myself that work will put me back on steady ground when Summer calls. The second her name flashes across my screen, relief loosens something in my chest. A few hours at the salon means clean floors, familiarvoices, and absolutely no Easton Evans leaning in doorways or saying things that make my pulse forget how to behave. But then Summer tells me the shop is closing early and I don’t need to come in, and just like that, my escape route disappears. For a minute, I stand there with my damp hair dripping onto my T-shirt, staring at the wall like it might offer an alternative. It doesn’t. So, I do the only thing I know how to do when my feelings get too loud: I grab my tools. By late afternoon, I have paint on my forearm, sawdust in my hair, and a list of problems long enough to make me question every life choice that led me to thinking I could refinish the floors on my own. The rail on the second floor still wobbles no matter how many screws I sink into it. The faucet in the downstairs half bath has developed a dramatic little drip that won’t stop leaking no matter how many washers I replace. I glance down at the paper in my hand and add washers to the growing list.
The back door opens behind me, letting in a sweep of warm air. I do not have to turn around to know it is Easton. Somehow, I know the sound of him by the steady weight of his boots, the pause he takes before stepping into a room like he’s waiting for me to look at him.
“You look like you’ve gone a couple of rounds with a paintbrush,” he chuckles.
