Page 15 of Easton

We return to the entry hall and nodding approvingly, I remark, “This house is really nice, Easton. There’s a great aesthetic in here, yet it feels nice and homey.”

“I agree,” he replies. “I liked everything right away. But I can’t take credit for it. It came fully decorated and furnished.”

“I know,” I tell him. “I heard.”

Cocking his head, he peers at me curiously. “You heard? How is that possible?”

I explain that I’m in real estate and Madison, his agent, is a very good friend of mine.

“Ahhhh,” he says, nodding. “Now it all makes sense. How you found me, that is.” Softly, he adds, “Can I make a confession too?”

“Sure,” I say.

His eyes meet mine, and he shares, “I didn’t know Madison is your friend, of course. But I did do a little research when I checked for your address. I saw online that you’re a real estate agent. So, yeah, I already knew that part.”

“Wow, that’s cool,” I say, smiling. “We were doing the same thing, looking each other up and stuff, and we didn’t even know it. Well, I’ll tell you one thing—it makes me feel like less of a dork.”

That makes him laugh. “Seriously,” he says, “same here.”

Wow, not much has changed with us.

I’m thrilled he was researching me, just as I was looking for info on him. It makes me not feel like such a stalker.

We’re still standing in the entry hall, and spacious though it is, Easton motions to his left and suggests we head into the living room so we can sit down and be more comfortable.

“Sounds good,” I reply.

I follow him in, and we sit down on a dark brown, L-shaped leather sofa. I choose the shorter side, while he opts for the longer end. It feels like the perfect friendly distance.

Easton asks me if I’d like anything to drink, soda or water, but I tell him I’m good for now.

“Okay,” he says as he props a throw pillow under his arm and leans on it. “I’m fine too. But let me know if you change your mind.”

“I will,” I assure him.

I feel so relaxed. This really is like old times.

And just like back then, we begin to talk about so many things: our college days, what we missed when we lost contact, some hockey tidbits that I didn’t know, and finally, about life in general.

At one point, I think about his folks and how nice they always were.

That leads me to ask, “Do your parents still live in Boston?”

Easton shakes his head. “No. They moved down to Florida when I left the Bruins. I think they were tired of the winters, so it all worked out.”

“Ah, got it.” I nod, adding, “I’m sure they’re happy to be back in a warm climate.”

“Definitely,” he confirms. “They’re really settled in down there now. I don’t see them ever moving again, especially not to anywhere that gets cold.”

“Sounds like my mom,” I share. “She’ll never leave Arizona. She loves the heat too.”

He’s quiet for a few seconds, like he’s debating whether to bring something up or not. I have a feeling it’s about my father.

Sure enough, he clears his throat and asks quietly, “What about your dad? Is he still in LA?”

“He is,” I confirm.

“Still has his company?”

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