Winning With Him (Men of Summer #2) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,54

like Holden Kingsley, who just joined the city’s other baseball team—the San Francisco Dragons.

I say hello, too, to Nadia Harlowe, the young owner of the city’s football team. I met her a couple years ago in New York and we’ve been friendly ever since—so much so, that we make plans to share omelets tomorrow morning for a post-event debrief.

But the whole time, my heart is skittering, and I’m all kinds of distracted, watching for a glimpse of Grant.

Everyone here is sporting a tux, so I’m hunting through a sea of black, then hoping my eagerness isn’t too obvious.

My mom and I are standing at a high table, chatting with Holden, when I spot him.

Dark blond hair that looks like he just swept his fingers through it, strong shoulders, and a broad chest that I know sports a mountain tattoo, an arrow, and a nipple barbell.

My senses toss me back in time to how it felt to touch his skin.

Does he have more ink?

Will I ever find out?

“Yes, I heard Night Darling is in town this weekend,” my mom is telling Holden.

“Love that band,” he says, and soon my mom is trading music recommendations with the new Dragon.

That’s my cue to make myself scarce, while she’s engaged in conversation.

“Be right back,” I say, then shoulder my way through the crowd.

Almost immediately, I lose track of Grant. I search the crowd for him, my heart pounding with anticipation and frustration. This is useless, and I can’t abandon my mom for long. I’ll have to find him later.

I return to my date, and she waves goodbye to Holden.

As he walks away, a new but familiar voice speaks in my ear, just for me. “Hey, there.”

When I turn, Grant’s eyes lock with mine. I swear they flicker with possibility.

They glimmer with the same question dominating my thoughts.

Do you want to get together while I’m here?

I know my answer.

Yes.

Pressure builds in me like a geyser. I want to ask—aloud, so there’s no mistake—if he wants to get together too.

But he’s with a man.

One who can only be . . .

“You must be Grant’s grandfather,” I say, extending a hand.

“You must be you-know-who,” he deadpans.

I swing my gaze to Grant’s, my eyebrows climbing. “I’m called you know who?”

Grant licks his lips, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “It’s either that or a certain someone.”

“I’ll take either,” I say, then introduce myself properly to the man Grant admires so much. The man who raised him. “I’m Declan Steele.”

“Nice to finally meet you,” his grandfather says.

Grant rolls his eyes. “You’re blowing my cover, Pops.”

Pops. He calls him Pops. It’s so fucking adorable. I set a hand on my mom’s arm, proud to show her off too. “This is my mom. Cyndi Marie Martin. That’s Cyndi with a Y first,” I add, since I’m used to hearing her spell it that way on the phone.

“So nice to meet you, Cyndi with a Y first. I’m Trevor Campbell,” Grant’s grandfather says, shaking my mom’s hand.

“Trevor, you’re local, aren’t you? I follow all the Cougars closely, and if memory serves, Grant is from Petaluma. Are you as well?” Conversation started, my mom takes Trevor’s arm and ushers him a few feet away. Thank you, Cupid.

“Gateway to wine country, land of milk and honey,” Grant’s pops says before they’re out of earshot.

Now, it’s just Grant and me at the table, plus a crowd of athletes, journalists, and fans spilling out behind us.

A huge ballroom full of colleagues decked out in finery.

This is no place for flirting or stolen touches.

But talking? We’ve done that every time we’ve seen each other. We can pull that off here too.

Grant hooks his thumb in the direction of my mom and his grandfather. “Did that feel planned or what?”

I hold up a thumb and forefinger. “Just a little.”

“Do you think they’ve been holding secret meetings? Scripting this moment?”

I rub the back of my neck, smiling. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

He takes a beat, then rests his elbow on the table and lowers his voice to a just-for-me level. “So, your mom knows about me?”

“She does. And, clearly, your grandfather knows about me,” I say quietly. I tip my forehead toward wherever they went, but I don’t break eye contact with Grant. Don’t want to.

“Some things are hard to keep from him,” Grant says. “I guess I broke that ground rule too.”

“Mmm. We broke all the ground rules . . . rookie,” I whisper.

His lips part, and a soft, sexy sigh falls from them. I want to save that sound