“Yes. Minimalist,” I say, dryly. “Let’s call it that.”
He chuckles, still trying toconnect, I guess. “So what are you supposed to be?”
Holy hell. This guy. I meet his gaze, calm but sharp. “I’m a secret, Darren. Call me a secret.”
I almost miss it but I hear Tatum from across the table whisper, “Oh shit.”
Eslin clears her throat beside me—a subtle warning.
I’m starting to enjoy feeling her squirm.
Two points for me. Zero for Coach Candy Ass.
Servers float through the room in sleek black-on-black uniforms, setting plates with the kind of reverence usually reserved for royalty. Low conversation buzzes around us, silver clinks against porcelain, and soft music hums beneath it all. But none of that matters. Not with her hand resting where it shouldn’t be.
I don’t think, just act. I take her hand and move it higher. Straight to where I’m already hard for her.
She gasps. Doesn’t pull away. In fact, she squeezes. And I look Darren Jones dead in the eye.
“I always had a thing for Janet Jackson growing up. You?”
He chuckles, oblivious. “Big time. Posters all over my dorm at boarding school. She waseverything.”
The first course arrives—seared scallops atop truffle risotto, saffron cream drizzled like artwork. The table reacts with impressed murmurs.
Eslin tries to pull her hand away, but I don’t let her. Not right away. I hold it. Hold her gaze. Daring her to look away first.
“You are going to get me in trouble,” she whispers through a tight smile.
“You are going to drive me to murder,” I mutter back.
“I’m on a date, Grant. What do you expect me to do?”
She jumps suddenly, breaking contact.
“Did you just kick me?” she snaps across the table.
“Sorry!” Tatum chimes in, wide-eyed and innocent. “Girl, my foot fell asleep!”
We finish our first course and next, miniature heirloom beet salads arrive, each leaf and smear of goat cheese arranged like edible art come out.
Coach Jones has been charming all night. Gracious, attentive, and flirtatious in a way that would usually make a woman feel like the center of the universe. And Eslin plays along. She smiles at his jokes, leans in when he speaks, and matches his banter with that dry wit she’s mastered so well.
But it’s all surface. At least to me. The polished smile, the polite nods—none of it hides the truth. I see it in the way her jaw’s a little too tight, how her shoulders haven’t relaxed once all night. Theway her eyes keep flicking to mine like she’s tracking landmines with every breath.
She hasn’t touched me again since she pulled her hand back. And she’s slowly edged her body away from Darren with each passing minute, barely angling toward him when he speaks.
But none of that matters. Not when the air between us still crackles—still hums like her fingers never left the hard length of me beneath the table. Like some invisible current is still flowing between us, daring one of us to make the next move.
I don’t care who she came with. I don’t care that Darren Jones has his hand on her chair or that he’s acting like the perfect gentleman on this little date. I want her. I want her hands on me. Her eyes on me. Her loyalty wrapped around me like an oath. And every time she smiles at him or laughs a little too loud, it spikes something hot in my bones.
Fuck. Right. Not mine. But hell if I’ll sit back and watch her become his.
“So, Grant,” Coach Jones says, his tone as breezy as his grip on reality. “What are you going to do once you officially hand the reins over to Marlow?” He chuckles like it’s all a joke. “Usually, a man like you’s got a yacht and swooping up some hot young thing. Or a few, if what the tabloids say about you are true!”
Eslin chokes like the words sucker-punched her straight in the throat.
“You okay?” Darren asks, patting her back with a little too much familiarity.