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H e looks so good.

He looks so good.

He looks sooooo good.

It really isn’t fair. I was hoping the pictures I’d seen of him online were touched up or something. And that maybe Madison was overexaggerating.

But no, everything is true. Easton is hotter than ever.

He’s so tall and muscular, and his chiseled features are sharper than I remember. But his eyes are still the coolest blue. Right now they’re really vivid, though it may be the dark blue tee he has on that’s making them look so intense.

And damn, speaking of that tee…

Could his chest be any more sculpted?

Wow, just wow.

I’m in awe.

Easton Sonden is a man now, not a boy.

I like that.

Yes, I do.

But more than anything, I’m happy that it still feels like he’s my friend.

I’d never do anything to jeopardize that. What we had—and clearly still have, based on the nice hug we just engaged in—is too special.

So when he asks me if I want to come into his house to catch up, I tell him, “Yes, I’d like nothing more than that.”

It’s the truth; I want to hear about everything he’s been up to during the past few years.

Besides what I already know of his hockey career, of course.

As I follow him into his house, he asks if I’d like a little tour.

‘Sure,” I say.

I think this is his way to avoid any awkwardness. You know, keep us moving around to start off.

That’s fine. As a real estate agent, I really want to look around.

The first thing I take note of is how stunning the interior is. I mean, the exterior is nice, but the inside is striking. I love the high ceilings, exposed dark wood beams, the spiral staircase in the back of the entry hall, and just how everything is decorated in a perfectly matched southwestern motif.

He only shows me the first floor, but that’s okay.

We return to the entry hall and nodding approvingly, I remark, “This house is really nice, Easton. There’s a great aesthetic in here, yet it feels nice and homey.”

“I agree,” he replies. “I liked everything right away. But I can’t take credit for it. It came fully decorated and furnished.”

“I know,” I tell him. “I heard.”

Cocking his head, he peers at me curiously. “You heard? How is that possible?”

I explain that I’m in real estate and Madison, his agent, is a very good friend of mine.

“Ahhhh,” he says, nodding. “Now it all makes sense. How you found me, that is.” Softly, he adds, “Can I make a confession too?”

“Sure,” I say.

His eyes meet mine, and he shares, “I didn’t know Madison is your friend, of course. But I did do a little research when I checked for your address. I saw online that you’re a real estate agent. So, yeah, I already knew that part.”

“Wow, that’s cool,” I say, smiling. “We were doing the same thing, looking each other up and stuff, and we didn’t even know it. Well, I’ll tell you one thing—it makes me feel like less of a dork.”

That makes him laugh. “Seriously,” he says, “same here.”

Wow, not much has changed with us.

I’m thrilled he was researching me, just as I was looking for info on him. It makes me not feel like such a stalker.

We’re still standing in the entry hall, and spacious though it is, Easton motions to his left and suggests we head into the living room so we can sit down and be more comfortable.

“Sounds good,” I reply.

I follow him in, and we sit down on a dark brown, L-shaped leather sofa. I choose the shorter side, while he opts for the longer end. It feels like the perfect friendly distance.

Easton asks me if I’d like anything to drink, soda or water, but I tell him I’m good for now.

“Okay,” he says as he props a throw pillow under his arm and leans on it. “I’m fine too. But let me know if you change your mind.”

“I will,” I assure him.

I feel so relaxed. This really is like old times.

And just like back then, we begin to talk about so many things: our college days, what we missed when we lost contact, some hockey tidbits that I didn’t know, and finally, about life in general.

At one point, I think about his folks and how nice they always were.

That leads me to ask, “Do your parents still live in Boston?”

Easton shakes his head. “No. They moved down to Florida when I left the Bruins. I think they were tired of the winters, so it all worked out.”

“Ah, got it.” I nod, adding, “I’m sure they’re happy to be back in a warm climate.”

“Definitely,” he confirms. “They’re really settled in down there now. I don’t see them ever moving again, especially not to anywhere that gets cold.”

“Sounds like my mom,” I share. “She’ll never leave Arizona. She loves the heat too.”

He’s quiet for a few seconds, like he’s debating whether to bring something up or not. I have a feeling it’s about my father.

Sure enough, he clears his throat and asks quietly, “What about your dad? Is he still in LA?”

“He is,” I confirm.

“Still has his company?”

I snort. “Oh yeah. And it’s still his baby.”

Another silent beat passes, and then Easton asks, “Does he still do his annual birthday pilgrimage?”

I blow out a breath. “He did for a while, but when I turned twenty-one, I told him it wasn’t necessary for him to fly in and make such a big production anymore.” I shrug. “He just does a birthday call nowadays.”

Easton nods. “That makes sense.”

“It does,” I agree. “It’s much less stressful.”

He shoots me a sad look but stays quiet. I sense he’s contemplating what he’s going to say next.

Clearing his throat like before, he finally states, “You have a really big birthday coming up.”

Oh, here we go…

“I do,” I reply, keeping my voice calm and steady. “Four more days.”

Like he doesn’t know that.

“And you’re not married,” he continues softly.

I shake my head. “No, I definitely am not.”

His eyes meet mine, and I swear that blue intensity is stronger than ever as he says, “But you could be.”

Holy crap!

I swallow hard as I choke out, “What are you saying, Easton?”

“I think you know, Claire.”

I blow out a breath, then tell him quietly, “I couldn’t ask that of you.”

“You’re not asking,” he counters. “I’m offering. After all, I made a promise, right?” His eyes hold mine, and I couldn’t look away if I wanted to. “And, Claire,” he goes on, “I always stick by my promises.”

Oh my God, I think he’s serious.

Damn, I want him to be serious.

The good I could do with that money—help my mom, Madison, other people.

Hell, I need help myself.

But I still can’t ask this of him.

I reiterate that and add, “Easton, we were just kids back then when you made that promise.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “I meant it then, and I mean it now. So, what do you say, Claire Weller? Will you marry me?”