“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.
7
EASTON
The house is too quiet tonight.
I sit on the bed with my back against the headboard, legs crossed, guitar balanced across my lap. My fingers move over the strings in a slow rhythm that fills the room, but it doesn’t settle me the way it usually does. Nothing does lately. Not since Cat started getting under my skin.
It’s been a couple of days since I fixed that damn leaky faucet, and I still can’t stop thinking about Cat—about the way she’s knocked every thought loose in my head.
My thumb catches the wrong string, and the note twangs ugly through the room. I stop playing because all I can see is Cat leaving thirty minutes ago, her hair soft around her shoulders, her mouth painted red, wearing cowboy boots paired with a dress that showed off her legs.
Cat can go wherever she wants, with whoever she wants.
Doesn’t mean the questions stop chewing through me.
My jaw tightens before I even realize I’m doing it. I picture some guy opening a door for her. Some clean-cut cowboy with an easy smile and too much charm. I picture him sitting across from her in some dim little place in town, making her laugh theway she laughed with me. I picture the son of a bitch putting his hands on her.
The guitar lands on the mattress beside me harder than it needs to.
I’m sitting here going out of my mind over a woman. I’ve got to get out of here. Go somewhere I can have a drink and drown out the noise in my head.
I grab my phone off the nightstand and thumb open Lev’s name before I can talk myself out of it.
Me: You up for a beer?
The reply comes fast.
Lev: Already out. I’ll send the address.
A second later, my phone buzzes again with the location.
I’m down the hallway and out the door before I can think too hard about why I’m suddenly in such a hurry.
The porch light hums above the screen door, throwing moths against the glass. I’m halfway down the steps when the old rocking chair creaks. Cat’s grandfather sits in the shadows near the rail, one hand curled around the arm of the chair, the other resting loose over his stomach. His hat is tipped low, but I can feel his eyes on me.
“Headed out?” he asks.
I slow, but I don’t stop. “Meetin’ a friend for a drink.”
He nods. “A drink and some talk can give a man something to listen to besides himself.”
I pause and glance over at him.
The chair keeps rocking. “Thing is, a man can stare at an open door all night and still ask himself the wrong question.”
