I’m not even sure what tonight will be for us. What it might mean, where we might go, what it’ll take to get there. But details are for another time.
Tonight, I hope, is for reconnecting. For the good obvious. This evening, I hope that dreamy faraway look can turn into a dreamy close-up look for anyone who can read the truth in my eyes.
Because I know what I want tonight to be.
So does that damned butterfly of hope and anxiety, showing up for its recurring role in the movie otherwise known as Hey Grant, You’ve Still Got it Bad for Your Ex.
No shit, butterfly.
My knee bounces up and down. I peer at the door. Drum my fingers on the table.
I pop in my earbuds, after all, and fiddle around with my book, but I can’t tell if the hero is rappelling into a museum or down a cliff, so I shut it off.
The door swings open at six o’clock on the dot.
My pulse spikes.
I stuff my earbuds into my pocket and watch Declan Steele talk to the hostess. Give her my name. Tell her he’s here to see me.
She gestures to the back of the tapas bar. His gaze swings to me, and I grin instantly.
My smile has a mind of its own with him.
The rest melts away. He’s all I see, striding toward me, looking more handsome than he did the day we met. His beard is neat and trim, like when I saw him after the Rookie of the Year award—the perfect amount of hair that I want to feel against my face and my thighs. He knows I like it, and I kind of hope he’s wearing it that way for me.
Dark jeans hug his legs, and a hunter green Henley snuggles his chest and big arms. Hell, that shirt is an unfair advantage. That man doesn’t need any muscle-enhancing clothes on that strong body.
The body I want to feel against me.
Those dark eyes are locked on me the whole time as he crosses the bar, as if I’m the target in his crosshairs. He stares at me like he wants to take me apart.
With his tongue.
Yes, please.
When he reaches the table, I’m not sure if I should stand and hug him, or just let him take a seat like I would Crosby, or Chance, or Sullivan.
But since he’s none of those guys, I go with my gut.
Seems to be the day for that.
I slide out, stand, and give him a one-armed hug like we did at the agency party.
“Hey there,” he says, low and smoky, in a voice that sends a red-hot shiver all over.
No, make that white-hot as his nose brushes subtly against my neck—so subtle no one else can see, but I can feel it—and he draws a quick hit of me.
“Mmm.” That’s all he says. But it’s enough to fry all my circuits.
I extricate myself from the hug before it turns into an amateur porn submission. I slide back into the booth, and he enters from the other side. But it’s a half circle, so we wind up near each other.
Note to self: don’t move any closer or you’ll be rubbing up against him.
“How’s it going?” I ask, a little awkwardly. I feel like I haven’t been on a date in five years.
Because I haven’t.
The corner of his lips quirks up. “Excellent.” He takes a beat, looking at me like I’m his dinner. “Now that I’m here.”
I dip my face, trying to hide an even bigger smile as my stomach flips. “Good.” Then I draw a deep breath and raise my face, unsure what to say or how to start. My brain is vacant right now, so I try desperately to latch onto a fact, a detail. I circle back to last night. “So, you weren’t staying around originally?”
He shakes his head. “I was supposed to leave this afternoon.”
That’s all I need to reactivate my brain. My mind is no longer empty. It’s full of fantastic thoughts. I know exactly how to talk to him—the way we did when we were first workout partners. With flirt. “Ohhhh. What happened to make you change your mind?” I ask, like it’s a simple curiosity.
Declan gives a casual shrug. “I got an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“That so?”
“Much too hard to resist.”
“Must have been some kind of offer.”
“I’d have been a fool to get on a flight,” he says, and it’s like old times on the high school track, at the golf course or the gym.
“And you’re no fool,” I say, grinning stupidly now.
“Trying not to be.”
“So, when do you leave now?”
“Tomorrow around three.”
I nod a few times, then stroke my chin. “That’s a whole evening, night, and morning away.”
He lifts one eyebrow, his eyes glinting. “So much time,” he says, all rumbly and sexy, then he’s even sexier when he licks his lips.
Those lips.
I want to taste them. Feel them. Know them again.
“And so much to do in that time,” Declan adds, and my chest heats to furnace levels. It’s possible my hair might be on fire. Grab the fire extinguishers. I’m going to need them all night long because I’m sure—beyond a shadow of a doubt—that we’ll be fucking tonight.
And I can’t wait.
But I also intend to enjoy every second of the not fucking right now.
The next hour or so at this tapas bar is about to go down as the best foreplay in my entire life.
The trouble is the shoes clicking our way across the tiled floor. Out of the corner of my eye, the waitress comes into view, mere feet away.
When the petite brunette reaches our table, she shoots us a wide smile. “Hello! Can I interest you gentlemen in some tapas? Some drinks? We have terrific cocktails, including our signature spicy margarita with a hint of jalapeño. They’re so delish,” she says, then drops her voice to a playful whisper. “They just taste great on your lips.”
I laugh lightly. “How can I resist then? Any chance you can make me a virgin spicy margarita?”
“Of course I can.” She turns to Declan. “And for you?”
“I’ll have the same.”
“Anything to eat?” She arches a brow and starts rattling off some appetizers that sound incredible, but I’m not taking any chances with food tonight. I shake my head and my date does the same.
Yup.
He’s my date. It feels like our first one.
Warmth flows through my veins, like a delicious buzzing across my skin.
I love every second of being here with him. No idea where we’re going or how we’re going to navigate the road, but at the moment, I don’t care. I’m living in the here and the now, and I’m loving it.
When she leaves, his eyes stray to my hands on the table.
A laugh bursts from his chest and he gestures dramatically to my left hand. “Are you fucking kidding me? Did you have to wear that tonight?”
I snicker as I scratch my jaw. “What? Is the light from my World Series ring in your eyes?”
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
“Want a closer look? Maybe take a picture?”
“Oh yes. That’s exactly what I want.”
“Is it blinding you? The shine from all the diamonds?” I waggle my fingers.
“Yeah, because they look like rhinestones,” he scoffs.
I crack up, then beckon him closer. “Secret time. They are.”
“Who the fuck makes World Series rings with rhinestones?”
“They’re just temporary. The owner was so stoked about the win, he made these for us in November so we’d all have temporary rings. The real ones are being made by Tiffany’s with four-carat diamonds or something and we’ll get them in a pre-game ceremony on Opening Day at home.”
“Awww. I’m so sorry you don’t have a real one to wear yet,” he says, mocking me.
“Do you want to wear it? Like it’s my letterman jacket. You can. Just for tonight,” I tease. “But you gotta give it back in the morning.”
He shakes his head, grinning. “Sure, wise ass. And then I’ll make you kiss the ring.”
“Like, make me get down on my knees and kiss it?”
His smi
le burns off. In its place is heat and fire on his lips. “You on your knees . . .”
A zing of pleasure skims down my back. “You like that image?”
“I like all the images going through my mind right now, Grant,” Declan says, his voice hot and rough at the same time.
“Gonna keep those to yourself or maybe share?”
Declan parks an elbow on the table, stares at me with those deep brown eyes that can read all my lust, all my desire. “Let’s see. I’ve got a long list of images. Of wishes. Starting with—I want to get all your clothes off. Get my mouth all over you. My lips. My tongue. Want to taste you. Everywhere. Find out if you’re as sweet and dirty as I remember. Learn if you have any new ink. Lick it. Kiss it. Tug on your nipple piercing with my teeth,” he says, his eyes straying down to the outline of the metal under my shirt. “And yes, I noticed that the second I walked in, and you better have worn a shirt that tight to wind me up.”
I barely have time to rasp out a yes before he continues doling out a dirty dream list.
“And I really want to discover if I can still drive you insane with my mouth, my fingers, my hands, my cock. My entire body. I want to get naked with you. So. Damn. Soon.”
And I incinerate. I’m a volcano as his hot gaze rolls over me like a scorching summer day on the equator.
A flush races up the back of my neck, and I’m not sure I can talk again. But it’s important to me to be the one to ask. Just like I asked him to drinks, I want to be the one to ask for the next thing too. This is me being ready. Being who I am.
My voice is dry as a husk, but I manage simple and clear words. “Spend the night with me,” I say, my gaze pinning his.
Declan hums appreciatively, inching the slightest bit closer before he stops himself, maybe remembering we’re in public. But then he slides a hand under the table, and on my thigh.
I. Die.
The gasp that falls from my lips is the most carnal sound I’ve made in my life, and I really hope no one can hear it but him.
“You know that’s all I want. Evening, night, morning,” he whispers.
“Take it. They’re yours,” I say.
“Consider it done.”
His fingers spread over my thigh and my dick twitches in my jeans, thumping against the fabric.
Get closer, it’s saying.
Now, fucking now.
Seconds later, the cheery waitress returns, deposits the margaritas and says, “Here you go. Need anything else?”
“A fire extinguisher?” I say, under my breath.
She tilts her head, narrows her eyes. “Excuse me?”
“A couple glasses of ice for my friend?” Declan suggests, all deadpan as he slides his palm along my thigh, turning me inside out with lust. I grit my teeth so I don’t moan.
“Of course,” she says.
He shakes his head, squeezing my leg harder. “Actually, we’re just fine. Thanks for these virgin margaritas.”
“You’re very welcome,” she says, then spins on her heels and walks off.
Once she’s gone, he slowly turns his gaze back to me. His dark eyes glimmer with reckless desire, with years of longing.
Same here.
Same fucking here.
I arch a skeptical brow. “Friend? I’m your friend?”
He shoots me a sly smile. “Yeah. You’re my friend. I want you to be my friend,” he says, and the damn butterfly brings its friends to my chest now. They are swarming me. “But I’m pretty sure you’re about to be my lover again too. And that’s also what I want.”
“I want that as well,” I say, and my answer makes his eyes spark with something like happiness.
His fingers graze my thigh, and I nearly lose my mind from the way he touches me under the table, the way his hand slides closer to my crotch. I’m throbbing for him.
Desperate.
With his right hand, he lifts the margarita glass. With his left, he travels across to the hard ridge in my jeans, then presses the heel of his palm on my erection.
Shuddering, I bite my lip. Pleasure rumbles everywhere in my body.
I try to keep my eyes open, but I want to close them and sink into this sensation.
His touch.
For a few seconds, I let go, shutting my eyes, feeling like I’m in another world. One of dirty, filthy bliss.
When I open them, the glass is near his lush mouth. “I wonder how it really tastes on your lips,” he muses.
“Bet you want to find out,” I tease.
Declan takes his time before saying anything. He just rubs the outline of my cock while he stares at my mouth. “Bet I will.”
Then he removes his hand from my jeans, and I unleash a groan of blue-balled frustration.
But relief too. Not sure how long I could have handled that.
And yet I also want to handle everything.
I want the tease. I want the time. I want him to toy with me all night long. And I want to toy with him. Drive him as wild as he drives me.
“Let’s talk and not-drink first,” Declan says.
“I’ll not-drink to that,” I say, then raise the glass and clink it to his.
Before he takes a sip, he studies our glasses, touching each other. I can tell he’s hunting for something to toast to.
I asked him out, so I wait for him to toast. This is our give-and-take. I want to know how we take steps toward each other.
His lips quirk. Then he says, “To new beginnings?”
He’s not sexy, naughty Declan right now. He’s the vulnerable guy I fell in love with once upon a time.
A guy I’m pretty sure I could fall wildly in love with again.
“To new beginnings,” I repeat, then take a virgin drink.
26
Declan
I blame the margarita.
It cools me off, and the drink helps me turn down the heat of the moment. That’s good, in a way, because I want to take my time tonight. I want to enjoy every second of this evening out with Grant Blackwood.
This night feels like it exists in its own sultry, hazy, sexy plane of existence. But I’m acutely aware, and I suspect he is too, that if we stand a chance of having something real this time around, it needs to start with more than flirting.
More than sex.
It needs to start with hard truths.
That’s where I begin after I drain the glass. “I started seeing someone in the last year,” I say.
Grant blanches, his eyes bugging out. “What?”
I reach for his hand to reassure him but pull back at the last second, realizing I shouldn’t touch him like this in public. Not until we’ve figured out the new ground rules for that, and all that a public touch, not an under-the-table one, entails. “A therapist,” I quickly correct.
He breathes in deep relief. “You asshole. You scared the fuck out of me.”
I laugh, diffusing the tension. “I’d never do that. I meant—I’m seeing a therapist. Her name is Carla. She’s fantastic and wise and insightful. And she’s helping me with a ton of things.”
Grant’s grin is different from the ones he flashed my way earlier. Different, too, from the I’m happy to see you smile, or the you’re turning me inside out one. It’s warm, authentic, and seems to come straight from the heart. “That’s awesome. How did you decide? Is it okay to ask you that?” he asks.
“You can ask. It was actually my mom’s idea,” I tell Grant. “She suggested it about a year ago, when we were in Tokyo over the holidays. She’s been seeing someone basically since my dad left. She’s a big advocate of therapy, and she thought it could be good for me.”
“And is it? Good for you?”
“It is, but it’s really fucking hard.” I mime cracking my chest open with a can opener. “It’s like spilling your guts and hoping the people around you still want to hang out with you.”
He gives me a sympathetic smile. “Not your favorite thing to do—spilling your guts.”
I shake my head. “But I’m learning. We’re
working through a lot of shit. Like the way I took everything on when I was younger, to protect my mom from my father’s downward spiral. How I tried to protect myself from him, how I put on blinders a lot of the time.”
“It’s what you had to do to get through,” he says.
“Or so I thought.”
“And now?” he asks. I’m grateful Grant’s taking this in stride, that he’s asking genuine questions, that he’s not scared off by my baggage.
“Now, I’m learning to be more open. To try to trust.” I draw a steadying breath. That word—trust—is the cornerstone of my issues.
Trust is so damn hard. But I want to get there. I want to trust that the world won’t fall apart around me. Trust that I don’t have to fix everything. Trust that I’m enough.
Grant reaches under the table for my hand, clasping it in his. “Man, I have to say I’m really happy for you. I’ve never been to a counselor, but it seems like it’s working for you. You seem like . . .”
I arch a brow. “A different person?”
He shakes his head, his tone adamant. “You don’t need to be a different person. I always liked who you were. Who you are. I think you seem like a more content version of yourself.”
“You can say it.” I goad him, squeezing his fingers.
“Say what?” He furrows his brow.
“A better version. I was kind of an ass.”
“You weren’t an ass. Not at all. If you were a jerk before, I wouldn’t have liked you. And I liked you. So much,” he says, his tone intense, then a little softer as he adds, “I just wanted to know more of you.”
“I want you to know more of me, Grant. I think I’m capable of that now,” I tell him, feeling completely vulnerable, stripping naked in a whole new way. This is what I need to do for us to have a chance. “We talk about you too.”
Surprise flits across his gorgeous blue eyes. “What do you say about me?”
“How I keep thinking about you. How I keep wondering. How nothing compares to you,” I say, my eyes never straying from his. “You’re my what-if.”
He tries to rein in a smile, but it’s futile. “You mean that?”
“Completely,” I say, then take a steadying breath, needing it for courage. “But here’s the thing.”
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