“Good. Because I’m keeping you.”
“You better. I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper, making him a promise I know I’ll always keep.
Grant Blackwood is the love of my life.
At last, I’ve found my way back to him, and I’m never letting this man go.
Like he wrote on a baseball—I feel the same.
He means everything to me.
39
Grant
The thing about being a pro athlete is you need to eat. That gives me the chance to show off my expert food-ordering skills once again.
When I hit send on the DoorDash order with Crosby’s mom’s organic café in the city, a reply lands in a minute.
Great game today! Order will be there in ten minutes. - Oscar
Laughing, I show it to Declan.
He arches a brow as he pulls his jeans back up. We’re in my bedroom, putting on clothes since the food is on its way.
“Who’s Oscar?”
“My regular,” I admit sheepishly.
“You have a regular DoorDash person? Why not get a concierge at this point? Maybe you need a PA just for your food orders,” he teases as he snaps his jeans and pulls on his polo.
Rolling my eyes, I put on shorts and a T-shirt. “Anyway, he knows me.”
Awareness flickers in Declan’s eyes. “Ah, so I shouldn’t answer the door with you.”
I flinch, hating that we’re hiding.
I close the distance. “That’s not it. I just want to tell our friends first. I don’t want them to see on Twitter or some sports gossip site that you were spotted at my house,” I say, reaching for his hand. “And I don’t want the teens I volunteer with through the Alliance to find out from anyone other than me—than us, you know?”
Declan smiles softly, presses a kiss to my forehead. “I’m not worried. Not about that. Not one bit.” When he pulls back, he runs a thumb over my jaw. “But when and how do you want to do this?”
The corner of my lips quirk in a grin. “Well, I had an idea . . .”
I tell him, laying out my plan. One that will kick in tomorrow night.
“I love it. I’m all in,” Declan says.
“Good. Now I have a little gift for you.”
“I do love your gifts,” he says.
We head to the kitchen, and I open the fridge, hunting for something I made for him. While I poke around the shelves, I give him a butt waggle—I’m thoughtful like that.
He whistles his approval. “Yes, I like the view a whole lot.”
I freeze. His words—I like the view—echo, filling my mind with ideas. I could get used to the view of him too. Right here in my house. Just like this.
In seconds, I build the Jenga Tower of what that might look like. Him and me in my home.
Is it too soon, though?
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, sure,” I say absently, trying to focus on the task at hand, rather than create a wobbly tower for a future too damn soon.
“You kind of zoned out for a minute.”
I blink, collecting my thoughts. “I was just thinking of a fastball I called for the other day, wondering if it was the best one,” I lie, then reach for the pitcher of iced tea.
Straightening, I turn, set the pitcher on the corner, and gesture with a flourish. “Ta-da.”
“What have we here?”
“I made you iced tea,” I say proudly.
“Whoa.”
“I know, I know. Prepare to be amazed.”
He hums, lifts a questioning brow. “Is it any good?”
I park my hands on my hips. “It’s tea. How hard can it be to make it good?”
“Let’s find out,” he says, then spins around, scanning my cupboards. “Where do you keep the glasses?”
I point to the cabinet with the cups. As Declan strides over to grab a glass, the ideas stack higher. But are they a Jenga tower? Will they come toppling down?
He offers me a glass. “Want some?”
“Yes.” I try to stay in the here and now.
He pours two glasses, and I sit next to him on a stool at the counter, grabbing my phone. “I’m going to invite peeps tomorrow. To the game,” I say as he slides me a glass.
“Sounds good. Are you telling them over text that you have a killer crush on the town’s hottest new athlete?” he asks as he lifts his glass.
I shoot him a don’t-tempt-me look. “If that’s what you want me to say, I will.”
Declan laughs, shakes his head, takes a drink. His eyes flash with approval as he swallows. When he sets down the glass, he wraps an arm around me, tugs me close. He drops his nose into my hair, inhales me, presses a kiss to the top of my head. Goose bumps cover me and I close my eyes and set down my phone without opening my texts. “This is the best worst iced tea I’ve ever had,” he whispers.
I jerk away. “What’s wrong with it?”