Grace: No one you know.
Mason: I know everyone.
I’m not replying to that with anything other than an eye roll emoji.
Mason: Have a bourbon maple for me. We’ll catch you next time we’re in town. Be safe and have fun, Gracie.
I heart his text just as Jackson responds to my apology with a middle finger and heart emojis.
I shoot him back a funny gif.
I think we communicate better in symbols than words. What’s that say about us?
Loud thumps bring my attention to the back of the truck where Dean is loading my bags. He still looks a little shaken.
My brothers would love him.
My mother would fucking hate him.
I have no clue what my dad would think.
“It doesn’t matter anyway, Grace,” I say to myself. It’s not like there’s a chance of Dean meeting my family.
Oscar rests her head on my shoulder, and I lean into her.
Dean hops back in the truck and silently takes us up another dirt road, over the bridge he showed me earlier, and when we finally pull up to his house, I’m awestruck. It’s much bigger than it looks from my porch.
Without speaking, he hops out and grabs my bags while Oscar sticks close to me. I swear these two work in some kind of weird unison as I’m ushered inside the house.
Warm scents of cinnamon and leather hit my nose first, followed by smoldering embers. It smells like Dean in here. Huge wood beams line the cathedral ceiling. The stone fireplace stretches up two stories. The sliding glass doors in the back of the living room opens up to a sizeable deck. The kitchen isn’t anything to sneeze at either. There’s a big bay window that shows off the beauty of the mountain Dean holds so dear. His home is gorgeous. Spacious yet cozy.
It's ahome.
Oscar dashes past me and rummages through a basket sitting next to a leather sofa. This place isn’t tidy at all. Paperwork and tools are piled up on the counter. Shoes lay scattered on the floor. Crumpled receipts litter the table along with a saltshaker. Socks are inside out like a trail of breadcrumbs on the floor along with a few shirts and a beanie. It’s like he dumps things randomly, in a hurry to start a new project or to go to bed.
Oscar brings a tattered towel over to me, wagging her tail.
“She doesn’t want your blanky, girl.” Dean rubs her ears. “Go lay down.”
Her blanky? Oh my heart.
Dean tips his head towards the stairs. “I’ll show you your room.”
That’s my cue to follow him. The banister is a solid tree trunk that’s been stripped of bark and varnished. A rug that’s seen better days stretchesdown the hall of the second floor, running along the balcony that looks over the living room.
“My bedroom’s downstairs,” he says. “This one’s yours.”
My room has a full-sized bed and a large picture window. None of the furniture matches. It’s not dark in here, but it’s not cheerful either. He places my luggage on the floor and my bags on the bed. “You have your own bathroom.”
I peek inside. It’s got a stand-up shower and sink. Nothing fancy but the tile work is pretty. It’s river stones designed in a sunburst pattern.
“I love it. Thank you.”
The way he’s so stiff leads me to believe he doesn’t think it’s true. “I know you’re probably used to a lot more luxury than this, Grace. I’m sorry I can’t give you that.”
“I’m not asking for luxury, am I?”
His brow furrows.
