I love her for that. I love that every time I crack open the lid on my weird, shadowy self, she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t judge. She just meets me where I’m at and stays there.
By the time I’m seated at their massive dining table, the house smells like hot oil and lemon. Marlow is mid-story, animated, explaining how the fish we’re eating was caught earlier this morning.
“On Dad’s boat,” she says, proud and glowing. “We battered and fried it as soon as we got back.”
I glance at him. Grant grabs a piece of the cornbread I made, forearms flexing, completely unaware—or pretending to be—of the ache he triggers in me.
I remember in Vegas when he told me he and Maddy used to spend whole weekends out there on his boat. Sun. Water. Silence. Her beside him with a book. The memory presses against my ribs.
I keep my tone light. “Do you get out to the boat often these days?”
He lifts his water, measuring his words. “I’d like to, but…” A beat. “It’s not the same without Maddy, and it’s never as fun when it’s just me. So, I like to ensure I have good company with me.”
He smiles over at Marlow. Today’s company.
Do I want to know if he’s hadothercompany on that boat? Other women? Yes. Do I want to risk ruining my friendship with Marlow to find out? Maybe. But instead, I wait. It’s not time.
“So, Eslin,” Marlow jumps in, redirecting. “How are things with Jones? He seems so smitten with you every time I ask him about you!”
I catch the way Grant swallows.
“Yes, Eslin,” he adds, smoothly. “How are things with Jones?”
Bastard.
I smile sweetly. “Great. Thanks. Anymore cornbread anyone?”
“I’m fine thanks. It was really good, by the way!” Eslin beams. Clueless.
My attempts to change the subject are useless.
“Oh, come on! Don’t be shy,” Grant teases from the far end, and I shoot him a murderous glare. “Is coach Darren Jones everything you ever dreamed of in a man?”
If he weren’t at the other end of this gigantic table, I’d knee him in the nuts.
“He is nice, respectful, kind—”
“Sounds delightful,” Grant mutters under his breath.
“Good in bed?” Marlow waggles her eyebrows.
And I see Grant’s wine slosh over the rim. Meanwhile, as Marlow keeps firing questions at me, not paying any attention to her filthy father, he’s dragging his tongue along the side of the glass, licking the wine that spilled.
Deliberate. Slow. Dirty.
“Can we change the subject, please?” I snap, heat crawling up my neck.
“So that’s a no? No good in bed?” Marlow presses.
“It’s a ‘let’s not talk about things like this in front of your father!’” I hiss.
Because I don’t want him knowing Darren and I haven’t even kissed. I don’t want him sensing I’ll barely let another man touch me unless he can make me feel even a fraction of what Grant makes me feel just bylookingat me. I don’t want him knowing that, even though I swore I wouldn’t wait for him, some pathetic, stubborn part of me is doing exactly that.
She leans back, hands up in surrender. “You’re right. We’ll save it for tomorrow’s happy hour with the Stand-Ins.”
“Great idea.”
Grant just sits there with that look—smug-ass, fine-ass, bastard.