But it’s hard not to watch him.

Oh, the gossipers at Sunny’s would have bug eyes and dropped jaws at this sight—hot and mysterious, Grady Tripp in my kitchen. He’s top-tier good-looking. If Seagrove sold a sexy calendar for a Christmas fundraiser, Grady Tripp would be every month; only the cute animal he was holding would vary. He’s not very tall, but he’s solid, like a bookend or brick wall, especially with his arms folded, his signature move. It’s not just his overall ruggedness that makes him so nice to look at, either. It’s his age, too. Men are so dang lucky that way. There’s a mature rigidness to his features, hammered out by years of heavy lifting and farm work. But a gentleness, too. His fine lines and spotty grays make him look approachable when he isn’t scowling. And his smile, when he dares share it, warms me with delight.

It’s almost a surprise to learn that he’s kind, too. The way he helped me, saved me, held my hand.

From the looks of his bounty, he cleared out Food Lion’s premade sandwiches, salads, and soups. He pops one into the microwave before filling my fridge with the rest. He stocked up on staples: eggs, milk, cheese, yogurt, butter. He places Cheerios, chicken noodle soup cans, and mac-n-cheese boxes in my cabinet. A loaf of bread, peanut butter, and a package of deli meat appear next. Frozen entrees go into the freezer along with a tub of Neapolitan ice cream.

It’s more food than I usually have. Or need.

But his kindness keeps showing up in unexpected places.

“You’re turning me into a traitor.” My joke comes across as weak and half-hearted with my increasing pain.

He smirks lightly, holding up Food Lion brand tuna from deep inside my cabinet. “Seems like you’re already converted.”

“Yeah, I can’t afford Sunny’s, either,” I breathe, wincing. “I wear hats, sunglasses, and baggy clothes when I go to Food Lion in case I run into a local. Don’t tell anyone.”

This earns a slight chuckle and that dazzling half-smile. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

He brings me steaming hot potato and corn chowder with crackers on the side, which he sets on the coffee table. I scoot up, wincing as I do.

“The pain pills will kick in soon,” he says. “Don’t take them without food. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He grabs a notepad and pen from the coffee table and jots something down. Then, he holds it up to show me that he’s logged the date, time, and medication I just took. “It’s good to keep track to prevent under- or overdosing.”

He makes me think of Mom. “Um, that’s smart. Thanks.”

“Another thing I learned from Dad.” He nods toward the soup. “Eat.”

Though my stomach revolts, I gulp several spoonfuls.