The loamy smells of salt and marsh hang heavy in the air here. Weathered metal hitching posts, once used to tie up horses, stand attention just outside the front doors I pass.

The street curves. Glancing down at the address Greyson texted me, I look up to find it in front of me.

I take in the brick exterior of a two-story townhouse. It’s the largest on the block by far, facing the water. The uneven brickwork and creeping vines are juxtaposed by modern steel windows. Gas lamps flicker beside the black front door, which is tucked beneath a second story balcony.

For several heartbeats I just stand there and stare. Stray raindrops catching on my hair, my shoulders.

I don’t know what I was expecting Greyson’s home to look like. This place is sleek and sexy, yeah. Like any bachelor pad worth its salt would be. It’s in an exclusive—and expensive—part of town.

But it’s got this beauty—this romanticism—that takes me totally off guard. Huge pots of purple flowers sit on either side of the front door. They line the balcony above my head, too. There’s a sleek brass knocker on the door itself. Custom made, from what I can tell.

The place is immaculately maintained. Thoughtfully restored.

Daddy would love it. This is exactly his wheelhouse: a thoughtful restoration where history and modernity meet.

Grief, sharp and swift, slices through my chest.

I draw a quick breath, blinking hard. For a second I contemplate turning around. Shooting Greyson a text to say I’m not feeling up to dinner. I want to lick my wounds alone. Maybe take a bath and go to bed by eight like the winner I am. This weird mood just won’t quit.

But then the front door is opening, and Greyson appears, leaning one massive shoulder against the jamb. He must’ve been waiting for me. Watching.

His eyes lock on mine. They are an arresting shade of blue against the early evening gloom.

Literally arresting. My heart’s not beating anymore.

Greyson doesn’t smile, but those eyes of his do when they take in my outfit. I went with my nice yoga pants this time and C of C hoodie.

“I approve of your stretchy pants choice,” he says. He crosses his arms, making the muscles in his biceps bulge against his shirt.

I run my eyes up and down the thick, broad outline of his body. I’ve never, ever felt weak in the knees. But right now, taking in Greyson’s off-white henley and the tight navy sweats that hang low on his hips, my left knee literally gives out.

“Hate yours,” I manage.

His lips twitch. He steps aside. “I can tell. Come in.”

Stepping into his foyer, I hold out the folder.

“For you,” I say. Then I nod at the bourbon in the crook of my elbow. “And this, obviously, is for Charlie Brown.”

“Kid after my own heart. Eight weeks and she already has a taste for the good stuff.”

“You have no idea what I’d do for a good Old Fashioned right now.”