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“Wow. Well, I got an air fryer when I graduated,” I say, taking in the house as I follow Graham toward the living area. “My parents paid for school, though. So, I guess that was fair.”
I’ve never known what style of house I’d like when I grow up. Which, at twenty-nine, feels like it should have already happened, but I still don’t see myself that way. Houses are just not something I’ve taken time to think about or contemplate on. I’m not one to look through Zillow and see what’s for sale around me, or dream about what my future home might look like.
But Graham’s house feels like it. It’s definitely got a bachelor vibe with all the earthy tones for the furnishings. But the back wall of the living room is covered in shelving and filled with all kinds of books, and in the center is a working fireplace with an intricate wood mantel that casts a warm glow around the room.
I can easily see myself sitting on the brown leather couch, drinking something warm, a book in my hand, feeling content with my life.
I start peeling off my coat, taking in more of the space. Graham lends a hand, helping me slide out of it, holding the back while I slip my arms free. He takes it and drapes my puffy outerwear over the edge of couch.
“You look ... different,” he says, sounding sort of strained.
“You mean because I’m not in scrubs?”
“I like . . . the top thing . . . the . . . your—”
“Sweater?” I finish for him. He seemed like he was struggling. I guess this casual setting is also weird for him. That makes me feel better. We can be weirded out together.
“Thanks, it’s cozy.” I wrap my arms around myself.
He clears his throat. “Are you ready to bake a cake?”
I stand up a little taller, dropping my hands. “I’m ready to kick your butt,” I say.
He smiles. It’s big and broad. That, coupled with the competitive banter, makes me suddenly feel more comfortable. I may not yet know how to do this whole being casual thing with Graham, but I can do competitive. I know how to do that.
“You better bring your A game, Price,” he says, turning and walking toward the kitchen, which is just beyond the living room.
“Oh, I definitely brought it.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
I follow him into a fairly large kitchen with dark cabinets and contrasting light-colored countertops. The lighting is bright and the appliances are stainless steel. Again, I’d never thought of what my grown-up kitchen would look like, but I think this might be it.
“It’s official,” I say. “I like your house.”
He chuckles. “Thanks, I like it too.”
“But I’m curious.”
“About?”
“How much time do you actually get to spend in this big, beautiful house with all your jobs?” I walk toward the island, which has mixing bowls and various plastic containers of flour and sugar and other supplies for the cakes. I offered to bring more stuff than I did, but he said he had it covered.
“You’d be surprised,” he says with a shrug.
“Even with all the time you spend at the clubs?” I say, doing a little shimmy that I instantly regret. It’s my not-so-subtle way of finding out if the rumors about him are true.
“Oh yeah, there’s so many of those around here,” he says.
Well done, Graham. An answer without actually answering. It’s true, though. Where would a player in the mountain town of Aspen Lake meet people? There are bars, I guess. I have so little experience with any of this.
I want to ask him, but I also ... don’t want to know. I like to think of Graham as this nice guy who everyone—especially Kyle—has gotten wrong.
“Well,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “Are we going to do this, or what?”
“Let’s do this,” he says.
NEARLY AN HOUR LATER, OUR cakes are in the oven, and Graham and I are standing on opposite sides of the counter, both breathing heavily, staring at each other to see who will make the next move. Oh, and I’m pretty much covered in flour. It’s all over my sweater and my leggings. And it feels like there might be some in my bra.
