Page 39 of Wild Highway (Runaway 2)

“Yes, you’ve made it crystal clear. So I’d say we’re at a stalemate.”

“Guess so.” He drained his water with three long gulps. The bob of his Adam’s apple was mesmerizing.

I expected him to leave with the glass empty, but once again, he stayed seated, settling deeper into the couch. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“No.” He looked around the room, his eyes taking it all in. “When Cash and I were little, Dad would take us camping here. Boys only. We’d go fishing at the creek. He’d build a fire and we’d have a cookout outside. I haven’t been inside in ages. Every time I come back, it seems smaller.”

Why was he telling me this? Again, I didn’t verbalize my question. Because when Easton wasn’t snapping at me or barking something condescending, I soaked up his every word. Especially if it had a thing to do with his youth.

Because his childhood was my dream.

“Do you know how to use that?” He pointed a finger at the wood stove in the corner.

“Uh . . .” I glanced around, searching the walls for a thermostat. There wasn’t one. “No. I don’t.”

“I’ll show you.”

“I can figure it out.”

“And burn down a Greer family legacy? I’m not taking that chance.” He stood and walked to the stove. “Come here.”

“Ask me nicely.”

He shot a look over his shoulder that wasn’t exactly a glare, but it wasn’t polite.

I enjoyed a warm house too much to annoy him, so I set my wine on the coffee table and joined him in a crouch by the stove. There was a small stack of wood and a basketful of newspaper beside it, along with a long-handled lighter.

Easton showed me how to use the paper and kindling to get it going, then gave me instruction on how to set the airflow. Within minutes, the fire was roaring, chasing away any of the chill in the air.

“Thanks.” I stood and went to close the windows.

I left the door open, assuming he’d leave at any minute. Then I went to unpack the cooler, stacked full of plastic containers. “She made all this in a day? It’s more food than I’ll eat alone in a month.”

Easton crossed the room, closing the front door, and joined me at the fridge. “Want some help?”

“Unpacking? No, I’ve got it.”

“No, not unpacking. Eating.”

I blinked up at him as he leaned a shoulder against the fridge. “You want to stay for dinner?”

“Mom made my favorite ham and potato casserole. She only makes it for special occasions and because you’re our guest, you got it.”

Ah. So that was why he was here. “Jealous?”

“If you’re not going to eat all this food, I’ll take that casserole off your hands.”

“Too bad. It’s mine.” And I was going to eat it first. Any meal that made Easton act remotely civil must be outstanding.

He shoved off the fridge. “Come on. Give it to me so someone who will actually appreciate it will eat it.”

“Excuse me?” I surged to my feet. “I don’t think you get to tell me what I appreciate. For a guy who has never gone hungry a day in his life, I can assure you, I appreciate each and every meal I eat.”

Easton winced and the annoyed look on his face vanished. “Sorry.”

I crossed my arms over my chest.

“That casserole is important.” He sighed. “To my family.”