I forced my gaze away from Will chasing Mia and Ava across the lawn and looked back at Griffin. The twilight glow seemed to make his eyes almost sparkle. It was no hardship, looking at this man. “It’s the least I could do. Thank you again for keeping the girls busy.”

Griffin scowled. “You don’t have to thank me for that. I like spending time with them.”

I forced my laugh back. “Good to know the scowl isn’t completely out of commission.”

Said expression on Griffin’s face only deepened. “I don’t scowl.” I couldn’t hold in my laughter any longer. “What’s so funny?”

“The first year you came into the store, I think you scowled every time. I made a game out of trying to get you to smile.”

“Seriously?”

I shrugged. “You were scowling, but I could tell it was a front.”

Griffin shook his head, looking out at the yard as Mia let out an especially high-pitched shriek. “I guess I’m not as much of a badass as I thought.”

“That’s not such a bad thing. I like the real you better.” I snapped my mouth closed. The words had just slipped out without me meaning to release them. They revealed a little too much about how closely I watched Griffin, how much joy I got from him coming out of his shell, letting us in.

Griffin was silent, but his gaze had drifted back to me. I could feel it on me without even looking his way. It seemed to heat each place it touched. I cleared my throat, trying to dissipate whatever energy was gathering between us at the picnic table. “The kids really love it here.”

“I’m glad. It’s been nice having some life back in the place. And it doesn’t hurt that you provide feasts to accompany it.”

I surveyed the table in front of us, my cheeks heating. I might’ve gone a little overboard. But I wanted to do something special for Griffin, for him to share the food I made him with people who cared about him and not with his empty kitchen.

I’d gone with an Italian theme since we’d gotten in our first heirloom tomatoes of the season. I’d made a bruschetta to start, an array of salads, and a caramelized tomato pasta for the main course with garlic bread on the side. Dessert had been fresh berries and vanilla ice cream.

Griffin turned slightly on the bench. “Can I ask you something?”

His voice jarred me from my spiraling thoughts. “Sure.”

“Why cooking?”

“What do you mean?”

He drummed his fingers against the wood of the table as if searching for the right words. “You love it, right?” I nodded. “Why?”