He was trying something new tonight too. Sleeping with a sweet, small-town baker, who wore pink, flowery dresses and didn’t date casually. She was also friends with the fiancées of two of his best friends. Which meant if he hurt her, he’d be fucking a lot up.
“I’m absolutely coming into your kitchen tonight, Jocelyn.”
Yep, that definitely sounded dirty.
He was, apparently, also making bad decisions he knew were bad going in. Which was also new.
Heat flickered in her eyes and she took a quick breath. Then she nodded. “Okay, then.”
She led the way across the loose white rocks that covered the drive toward the steps that took them up to the back porch. She turned the knob and pushed the door open.
“You don’t lock your doors?”
“In Appleby?” She laughed. “No. Besides, I don’t have anything worth stealing.”
He frowned. “Someone could just want you. They wouldn’t necessarily want to steal anything.”
She just laughed and stepped inside.
Grant didn’t think it was funny. He stepped through the door, but nearly plowed her over when she stopped and bent to slip her shoes off.
His hands landed on her hips, her ass pressed against his groin. The position was provocative but clearly unintentional. Still, his body responded.
Well, nothing like getting up close and personal in minute one.
Jocelyn straightening quickly, jerking her head around to look at him, her hair whipping against his face. “Sorry!”
Grant didn’t remove his hands. “I’m not.”
She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. He was certain she had no idea she’d even done it. “I… go barefoot a lot.”
That fit, somehow. “Want me to take my shoes off too?” He, on the other hand, never went barefoot.
“You don’t have to. The whole house is marble or hardwood floors.”
“Your feet don’t get cold?” He had no idea why that was the thought that occurred to him.
She seemed equally surprised. And amused. “They do sometimes,” she admitted. “I have a huge collection of socks.”
“But you just don’t like shoes?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just here that I go without them. It feels less homey to wear shoes in my own house. I’ve crawled on these floors, slept on these floors, danced and fallen and bled and puked on these floors. Feels weird to be formal on them. And shoes seem formal.”
He just stared at her. He’d never known anyone who was attached to floors. Who had even given that much thought to floors. Then again, he’d probably never known anyone who’d lived in a place where they had history like that. Except Aiden and Cam.
His two friends who were also from Appleby. There was definitely something about this little town that seemed to make it hard for people to leave. Permanently, at least.
Aiden had been gone from home for nine years, but he was definitely back to stay now. Cam seemed determined to avoid his hometown except for the random weekend where he’d come back and donate a boatload of money and accept a boatload of praise and thanks for it. Like when he’d paid to build the youth athletic complex or when he’d saved a historic bridge that ran across a small river outside of town. He did love being the hometown hero even though he seemed a bit allergic to actually being in the town. Still, he’d been fully on board with the idea of their company saving Hot Cakes, the local snack cake factory that employed a huge percentage of the town.
“I think I want to take my shoes off on your floors,” Grant said. His voice was strangely gruff.
Jocelyn rewarded him with a smile. “Okay.”
He let go of her finally and bent to remove his shoes. He was stupidly aware of his footwear for the first time in maybe ever. The shoes were leather, lace up, casual men’s shoes. They weren’t tuxedo shoes. They weren’t the most expensive shoes he owned by a long shot. But they weren’t tennis shoes or work boots, that was for certain, and he was suddenly aware Jocelyn probably saw a lot of both of those. He shouldn’t assume that, of course. She was, after all, attracted to him. And she was single. Gorgeous, sweet, a hometown girl, gorgeous. It was almost ridiculous that she was single. Unless small-town, blue-collar country boys didn’t do it for her.
Maybe Grant was exactly her type.
But she went barefoot at home because she felt attached to the floors. In the one-hundred-plus-year-old house that her family had owned for generations. In the