Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
“The list you and Reese made?” I ask, thinking of the night he told me the story behind the mountain tattoo on his pecs.
Grant’s eyes snap to mine. “Yes. That list.” He seems impressed I remember, but I remember nearly everything about him.
“And what do you think now that you’ve seen it?”
“New York is grittier than San Francisco, and we have better burritos on the West Coast.” The corner of his lips curve in a grin. “Also, our baseball team’s better.”
I narrow my eyes. “Yes, the Dragons are better than the New York Minotaurs,” I say, naming the other teams in each of our cities. “Funny story—I had to convince my own mother to start rooting for the Comets. Not sure I convinced her or my stepdad. They tried to wear Cougars gear when they came to a few games.”
“I like them even more now,” he teases. “My sister’s the same. Sierra always rooted for the Dragons when we were growing up. I had to beg her to switch allegiances when I signed.”
“Did it work?”
He grabs his phone from his pocket, clicks on the screen, then taps through his camera roll. “You tell me,” he says, brandishing the phone.
I move closer, standing inches from him now, catching a whiff of his arousing scent. My favorite smell in the world.
Him.
But I do my best to focus on the image he’s showing me.
It’s Grant in his Cougars uniform on Opening Day. He’s on the field, flanked by two blonde women, an arm around each. “That’s Reese,” he says, pointing to the more fair-haired one. She’s tall too, maybe just under six feet. “And that’s Sierra,” he says, pointing to the other woman, her hair closer to Grant’s in color, but with a long purple streak down the side.
She’s decked out in Cougars gear.
I furrow my brow, trying to find the Where’s Waldo? hint he’s dropping.
“Look closer, Deck,” he encourages, and that nickname unknots some of the tension in me. He zooms in on the picture, and I crack up when I spot the issue. “Ah, I see she’s wearing Dragons earrings.”
“She is, indeed. She’s a rebel. And she loves to give me a hard time,” he says, then lifts a brow. “You don’t have siblings, do you?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s just me.”
He nods like he’s absorbing that intel, then sets his phone on the nearby coffee table. I swear I can hear what he’s not saying—only child. That makes perfect sense.
“But I have a stepbrother,” I volunteer quickly, even though Aaron hardly changes my only child status, or behavior. “He’s older, so I never lived with him.”
“Yeah? How much older?”
“Nearly ten years. My mom married Tyler when I was seventeen, so I didn’t know Aaron much. Honestly, I don’t know Aaron that well now, either. He lives in Tokyo with his wife, who’s from Japan. They’re both doctors. He met her while working at a hospital there.”
“Tokyo is hella far,” he says. “Probably hard to get together for Christmas.”
I let out a light laugh. “It is. But I could try.”
“You should go,” Grant says earnestly. “It’s good to see family. And thanks for telling me.”
He’s not sarcastic, but I get the subtext. I never told him much about my family before. Maybe this is a small start. “Maybe I’ll offer myself up for a Christmas visit.”
“Do that.” He takes a breath, peers out the window again, then back at me. “And how’s New York treating you?” he asks, his smile disappearing, a note of concern in his voice. Pretty sure I know what he’s getting at. He wants to know what I’m up to at night. I want to know the same about him.
“Better now,” I say, keeping my eyes on him, making my meaning clear. “It’s really good to see you, Grant.”
He lets out a shuddery breath, drags his hand through his hair, looks out the window. Fiddles with his tie once more, tightening the knot rather than loosening it.
But he says nothing.
In his silence, I can read his emotions like a book. He’s wildly conflicted. About everything. About me. About tonight.
“You want that drink? Or a not-drink?”
“Yeah. I’m parched.”
I beckon him into the kitchen, where I grab the bottle of champagne I bought for him. “For the rookie of the year,” I say, lifting the bottle. “Let me pour you a glass.”
I’m about to pop it open when he shakes his head, reaches for the neck, and wraps his hand around it. “No.”
“Why not?”
Grant stares at me like he can’t believe I asked. “Because you don’t drink.”
“But I got it for you. To celebrate,” I say, then stare at our hands wrapped around the bottle. Close to each other’s. So close we could touch.
He tugs a little harder. “Like I said before, I’m not going to drink with you.”