“Go find your coeds.” Grant pushed his billfold back into his pants pocket and wandered their direction. He was already exhausted and it was only eight o’clock. “I’ll keep the hall monitor in check.”
Rafe pounded Grant’s fist. “I owe you.”
“Grow up,” Tate yelled at Rafe’s back, which he ignored.
Grant and Tate joined the reception, neither interested in being there. They spent half an hour talking about Grant’s shoulder, the team, and the games Grant missed while he was in Holly. Which only reminded him of that ache in the pit of his stomach and made him glance at his phone again.
Still nothing. And God help him, all he could think about was her walking away, with her “Safe travels, Grant Saber” ringing in his head.
Tonight, the words felt more like a permanent good-bye than a see you later.
“Who is she?” Tate’s question pulled Grant’s gaze from his drink. Tate had his shoulder against a pillar, his eyes on Grant.
“Who is who?”
“The chick? The one who’s not texting you back. The one who’s making you wish you were somewhere else?”
“What makes you think it’s a chick? Maybe I’m just sick and tired of this monkey-suit-smile-for-the-camera shit. Maybe I’m thinking about negotiating my next contract differently next time around.”
“Because otherwise you’d have done Bridgette in the bathroom at the pre-party already and be looking for another empty closet somewhere in here. Or, if you’d already tired of Bridgette after one ride, you’d be prowling with Savage.” Tate smiled, but it wasn’t happy, and it wasn’t smug. It was sad. “And, because I’ve been there. Not all that long ago. I recognize the signs.”
Ah shit. Grant had forgotten about Tate’s divorce. “Hey, man, I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. It sucks. And I’m here to tell you, if you love her, it doesn’t get any better.”
Grant downed half his drink, wincing at the burn. “Just what I needed to hear tonight.”
Did he love her? Grant had never been in love. He knew he was crazy about her. Certainly didn’t want to think about the coming weeks and months without talking to her, seeing her, touching her.
But love?
“God, I’m tired.” He rubbed his eyes. “I just want to go home.”
No. Not home. He wanted to go to Faith.
He wanted to go home to Faith.
Home and Faith.
Yes.
They fit.
But, still… Was that love? And did it matter?
“If you’re this tied up over her, why didn’t you bring her with you?” Tate asked. “I mean, I don’t blame you. That dumbass right there”—he lifted his beer toward Rafe where he was chatting up two beautiful women—“is enough reason.”
Grant glanced at Rafe, then back at Tate, confused. “What?”
“The chick you’re twisted over. Why didn’t you just bring her with you? You could have made it a mini Christmas vacation.”
He opened his mouth to answer, but every excuse he pulled up fell flat—she didn’t have any family to stay in Holly for. She’d given up on judging the contest. The hardware store was closed Christmas Day.
Why didn’t I just bring her?
A sick feeling spread across the floor of his stomach. To push it away, Grant blew Tate off. “What kind of question is that? Who’d want to come to one of these things? They’re boring as shit. I don’t even want to come.”
“You’re not serious. Dude, this is an exclusive event with the fucking president of the United States, not to mention a blockbuster country music mogul. I know the whole celebrity thing doesn’t do anything for you, but that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t do anything for her.”