“Yes, I heard Night Darling is in town this weekend,” my mom is telling Holden.
“Love that band,” he says, and soon my mom is trading music recommendations with the new Dragon.
That’s my cue to make myself scarce, while she’s engaged in conversation.
“Be right back,” I say, then shoulder my way through the crowd.
Almost immediately, I lose track of Grant. I search the crowd for him, my heart pounding with anticipation and frustration. This is useless, and I can’t abandon my mom for long. I’ll have to find him later.
I return to my date, and she waves goodbye to Holden.
As he walks away, a new but familiar voice speaks in my ear, just for me. “Hey, there.”
When I turn, Grant’s eyes lock with mine. I swear they flicker with possibility.
They glimmer with the same question dominating my thoughts.
Do you want to get together while I’m here?
I know my answer.
Yes.
Pressure builds in me like a geyser. I want to ask—aloud, so there’s no mistake—if he wants to get together too.
But he’s with a man.
One who can only be . . .
“You must be Grant’s grandfather,” I say, extending a hand.
“You must be you-know-who,” he deadpans.
I swing my gaze to Grant’s, my eyebrows climbing. “I’m called you know who?”
Grant licks his lips, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “It’s either that or a certain someone.”
“I’ll take either,” I say, then introduce myself properly to the man Grant admires so much. The man who raised him. “I’m Declan Steele.”
“Nice to finally meet you,” his grandfather says.
Grant rolls his eyes. “You’re blowing my cover, Pops.”
Pops. He calls him Pops. It’s so fucking adorable. I set a hand on my mom’s arm, proud to show her off too. “This is my mom. Cyndi Marie Martin. That’s Cyndi with a Y first,” I add, since I’m used to hearing her spell it that way on the phone.
“So nice to meet you, Cyndi with a Y first. I’m Trevor Campbell,” Grant’s grandfather says, shaking my mom’s hand.
“Trevor, you’re local, aren’t you? I follow all the Cougars closely, and if memory serves, Grant is from Petaluma. Are you as well?” Conversation started, my mom takes Trevor’s arm and ushers him a few feet away. Thank you, Cupid.
“Gateway to wine country, land of milk and honey,” Grant’s pops says before they’re out of earshot.
Now, it’s just Grant and me at the table, plus a crowd of athletes, journalists, and fans spilling out behind us.
A huge ballroom full of colleagues decked out in finery.
This is no place for flirting or stolen touches.
But talking? We’ve done that every time we’ve seen each other. We can pull that off here too.
Grant hooks his thumb in the direction of my mom and his grandfather. “Did that feel planned or what?”
I hold up a thumb and forefinger. “Just a little.”
“Do you think they’ve been holding secret meetings? Scripting this moment?”
I rub the back of my neck, smiling. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
He takes a beat, then rests his elbow on the table and lowers his voice to a just-for-me level. “So, your mom knows about me?”
“She does. And, clearly, your grandfather knows about me,” I say quietly. I tip my forehead toward wherever they went, but I don’t break eye contact with Grant. Don’t want to.
“Some things are hard to keep from him,” Grant says. “I guess I broke that ground rule too.”
“Mmm. We broke all the ground rules . . . rookie,” I whisper.
His lips part, and a soft, sexy sigh falls from them. I want to save that sound forever. “We did, Deck. We definitely did.”
We could break more, I want to say.
But now isn’t the time to steer us in that direction. “I’m glad you told him. I think,” I add with a laugh.
Grant chuckles too. “I’m glad I told him. He’s easy to talk to.”
“Seems like it.”
“Your mom is for you? Easy to talk to?”
I give a light shrug. “You know talking was never my strong suit. But I’ve been getting better at it.”
“Have you now?” His lips curve in a grin, like I’ve said the best thing ever.
I nod, drumming my fingers on the table. “About things that matter, yes. I mean, I can talk all day about nothing. But important things? I’m learning how to talk about them.”
“Good.” Then his voice dips even lower, a wisp of sound in the space between us. “I noticed you were chatty when you called after the World Series.”
“I was. I could have talked to you all day,” I murmur.
“We almost did. Then we almost did again on Christmas.”
“That was a good call too.” My fingers itch to touch him. Hell, my whole body is humming. But I can’t be this close to him in public when I’m not sure I can hide what I want.
I want time with him. Time alone.
To talk.
To touch.
To explore.
His expression shifts, his eyes darting to the press of bodies. All around is the soundtrack of chatter, glasses clinking, and tasteful background music.