Page 30 of Easton

Before I head to the kitchen, I pop into a downstairs powder room to make sure I look all right.

My hair is down, so I fluff it out. Then I straighten the teal knit shirt I have on and pick off a piece of lint from my faded jeans.

“Okay, all set,” I murmur to my reflection. “Let’s go check on that lasagna.”

Turns out, it’s ready, all cheesy and gooey on top, just like Easton always liked it.

With a big smile, I remove the cooking pan from the oven and place it on the counter.

Next, I put the salad bowl on the table, then turn to the refrigerator to grab a pitcher of iced tea.

Just in time, too, as I hear Easton coming in.

“Hey,” I call out. “I’m in the kitchen.”

A moment later, from the doorway, I hear a soft “Hey.”

I spin around, pitcher in hand, but I don’t immediately set it on the table.

It’s just thatwow—Easton lookssooooogood, leaning casually on the door frame, arms crossed, his dark blond hair a little mussed, and his blue eyes sparkling.

“I made dinner,” I blurt out. Quickly, I slide the pitcher onto the table. “I hope you didn’t eat already.”

He shakes his head as he uncrosses his arms and pushes away from the frame.

Damn, even that little move is hot.

“I didn’t,” he says, stepping over to the table and picking out a cherry tomato from the salad. “I’m actually starving.”

As he pops the morsel into his mouth, I say, “Good.”

“What are we having?” he asks after he’s swallowed. “Whatever it is, it smells fucking delicious.”

I make a grand gesture to the counter. “Lasagna,” I announce with a big grin.

His eyes widen. “No way.”

Laughing, I nod. “Oh, yes. And…” I turn to pick up the potholders so I can grab the pan from the counter. Placing it on the table, I share, “It’s my mom’s recipe.”

“Damn, woman.” Easton plops down onto a chair. “I come home from a long trip, and you’ve made what used to be one of my favorite dinners? You are way too good to me.”

I like that he just said all that.

And I like that he’s pleased I made him dinner.

But that’s okay.

These are things you do for your best friend, right?

I shrug nonchalantly as I take a seat across from him. “Eh, it was the least I could do to welcome you home. It’s been a while.”

“It has,” he agrees. And then, his eyes meeting mine, he says softly, “This dinner is very much appreciated, Claire. Thank you.”

In a voice just as soft, I tell him, “You’re welcome, Easton.”

We dig in then, and the man is instantly in heaven. Or so it looks from the expression on his face. I mean, his eyes are closed, and he’s clearly savoring his first bite.

“Oh my God,” he says, pointing to the square of lasagna on his plate with his fork. “This is better than your mom’s. I’m not kidding. I don’t know what you did, but this is just next-fucking-level.”

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