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A fter the charity dinner and auction, I’m feeling all kinds of confused.

Why was I so jealous of that girl who won the lunch with Easton?

Why am I still irritated?

The “date” hasn’t even happened yet.

But I dread it.

Why, though?

And why did I pay so much attention to Shane?

Not all of his jokes were that funny.

I guess I wanted to see if Easton would notice and get jealous.

I could tell that he did. I caught him rolling his eyes, and once he even let out an aggravated huff.

I really liked that.

But I shouldn’t have.

That’s why I’m glad that after a couple of additional home games following that dinner, the team went on the road for a bunch of away matches.

In fact, they’re still gone.

Though I’ve missed Easton, we need this time apart to get back to what we are—good friends. The night of the dinner, when he came into my bedroom and zipped up my dress, we shared an unexpected lusty moment.

It was unplanned but so real.

I felt warmth emanating from him as he stood so close behind me, his hand on the pull of my zipper. He was clearly distracted by my bare back, so much so that he wouldn’t even meet my gaze in the mirror as he began zipping me up—oh so slowly.

It was tortuous, and it was hot.

I was hot, my skin screaming for his touch.

When our eyes finally met in the mirror, I could see how much he wanted me.

Hell, I wanted him too.

But we can’t ever act on an impulse. We have too much to lose. That’s why I said his name, breaking him from whatever illicit thoughts were running through his mind.

Probably the same thoughts as mine, to be honest.

I gave him a knowing grin. But then he shot me one, too, when he caught me glancing down at his junk as I turned to face him.

Okay, I was curious to see if he was aroused.

I know I sure was.

But, again, we have to stop that.

We can’t screw up this fake marriage, damn it!

Easton is only with me as a favor and fulfillment of a promise. It’s all about the trust fund money. I need to remember that.

Speaking of those funds, while Easton has been away, I’ve been busy meeting with my financial advisers and attorneys. I’ve diversified my portfolio for maximum gains, and the charitable foundation we want to create for the children’s hospital is just about set up.

My lawyers have been in talks with the Bears, and thankfully they’re going to allow Easton to represent the foundation in his role as a professional hockey player. That will bring so much more visibility to our endeavor.

I can’t believe how everything is working out.

But truly what I’m most pumped about is that the team is coming home today.

Easton will be back.

Yay!

Even though we’ve texted and talked over the past week and a half that he’s been out of town, it’s not the same. We’ve really just discussed my meetings and how our new charitable foundation is coming along.

But damn it, I miss spending time with him.

We haven’t mentioned it in our calls or texts, but after that charity dinner, we kind of avoided each other for the few days he was still here.

Then he left to go on the road.

I just want everything back to normal. I’m hoping we can return to our routine of sitting out by the pool and catching up, as well as taking walks.

Maybe we can even do one of those things tonight. It’s after three, so Easton should be back any minute now.

That reminds me—I better check on the homemade lasagna I put in the oven a while ago. It’s probably just about done.

Yep, I made us dinner.

I hope he likes it.

It’s my mom’s recipe, and I remember from the past that when he’d come over to have dinner with us, he especially loved my mom’s lasagna. He said back then that it was “the best” he’d ever had.

High praise, and that’s why I made it today. I also threw together a mixed green salad as an accompaniment.

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 that wow —Easton looks sooooo good, 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.”

I laugh and murmur a humble “Thanks,” but inside I’m fist-pumping the air.

Yes, success!

I added more cheese than Mom usually does, but otherwise, it’s the same recipe. Of course, Easton loves cheese, so it makes sense that he’d like mine better. In any case, I’m happy this dinner is a hit.

“I’ll have to cook us more things,” I tell him.

“I would love that,” he replies. But then, turning serious, he says, “Only if you really want to, though.”

I assure him, “Don’t worry, I only cook if I really feel like it.”

“Good.” He nods approvingly, then says, “Maybe I can make something for you sometime too. I’m not the greatest in the kitchen, but I can grill up some mean-ass steaks.”

I don’t know what exactly “mean-ass” steaks are, but I assume they’re good, so I laugh and say, “Sounds like a deal.”

As we work on our meals, conversation continues to flow freely. Easton tells me all about his away games.

I listen with rapt attention, even though I watched them all. It’s still fun to hear his perspective and the behind-the-scenes scoop.

He shares with me at one point that Lennox hooked up with an old girlfriend in Vancouver.

I ask, “Do you think anything will come of it?”

He chortles, “No. That’s just typical Lennox behavior. She was there and willing, so…”

I roll my eyes. “Good God, that just confirms it. I am never introducing him to Madison.”

I told Easton that my friend has the hots for Lennox, but he agreed with me—setting them up is probably a bad idea.

“Yeah,” he says, hacking off another hunk of lasagna with the side of his fork. “I wouldn’t get those two together.”

After dinner, we clean up the kitchen. We make a good team, with him handing me the dishes and me loading them into the dishwasher.

Once we’re finished, we both agree we’re up for a walk to burn off some of the calories and carbs from our rich meal.

But first we change out our shoes—my strappy sandals and his loafers—for sturdy hiking boots.

“Are you ready?” Easton asks as we meet back up in the entry hall.

“Yep,” I confirm.

He pops open the front door, and I follow my husband— God, it still feels so weird thinking that— outside.