Winning With Him (Men of Summer #2) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,71
my fingers along the design. “Why? When? A tattoo is never just a tattoo for you. It’s a mantra.”
His lips curve into a grin. “That’s true.”
I curl my palm around his arm, gliding up his strong muscles, past the art near his wrist. “Like your compass. You told me it’s to help you find your way,” I say, repeating what he told me in spring training one night five years ago. “That’s what this represents to you. You had to do that since your parents said things that were difficult to hear.”
As he nods sharply, his jaw tightens, but his lips remain ruler straight, so I kiss the corner of them. “If you want to tell me someday, Grant, I’ll listen. You know that, right? I’ll listen to anything you want to say.”
His hands slide around my waist, his thumbs playing with the divots of my hips. “I do know that.”
“I can be a good listener. Just because I’m the messed up one doesn’t mean I can’t listen.”
Grant scoffs, jerks back, stares sharply at me. “We’re all messed up in our own way. Your messed-up doesn’t scare me. It never has.”
My heart jumps around, like there’s a monkey banging cymbals in there. “Good. Now stop distracting me. Sun and moon. Tell me everything because I want to know more of you.”
“I will, but let’s stop wasting water.” He lifts a finger. “Though, for the record, I did have this shower installed in an eco-friendly fashion.”
“With your fifty showerheads.”
“There are only five. Also, I get sore after games, so a long, hot shower helps.”
I hum, as he turns off the faucets. “I’ll rub you down after games.”
He wiggles a brow. “Don’t act like I won’t take you up on that.”
“Oh, I do want you to take me up on that. I definitely do,” I say as the water peters off.
He steps out, grabs a towel, then tosses one to me.
As we dry off, Grant gestures to his new ink. “I got this before spring training my second year. I went back to the same shop in Petaluma. Where my grandpa goes. I wanted it because I knew I needed to be strong going back there.”
“Strong on the field or off the field?” I ask carefully.
“Off. First time in Arizona after you,” he says, with a sad laugh, as he rubs the towel over his hair.
My chest twinges. “Was that hard? Being at the same place where we were? Same hotel?” I ask, flashing back to that time for me too. I’d dreaded walking into the complex in Florida, even though Grant had never been there. That was what stung—entering the baseball season, my favorite time of year, without as much joy in my heart because Grant was in the past.
Back then, I’d believed he’d stay there forever.
“Just being there, walking those halls, going up the stairwell, was harder than I expected. Goofing off in the pool with our teammates reminded me of you,” he says heavily, then shakes his head like it can shake off the memories. “That’s why I’m glad I had this,” he says, sliding his finger across the ink. “I wanted a reminder that life is full of opposites. Light and dark, hardship and good times, duty and fun. The sun is strength and power, but it needs the moon, too, for balance. And I knew I needed the reminders to stay focused, to stay strong.”
“Seems it worked,” I say, hanging up my towel. As he does the same, his stomach rumbles.
Laughing, I pat his firm belly. “You as hungry as I am?”
“Famished,” he declares. “Let’s order something. A lot of something.”
In his bedroom, Grant grabs a pair of gray gym shorts from a drawer and tosses them on the bed beside him. “Want shorts?”
My brow knits. I’m quiet for a few seconds too long. “We’re sharing clothes?” I ask like a robot.
He levels me with a skeptical stare. “Dude, I just came inside your body, and you don’t want to share clothes? That’s your line?”
Shaking my head, I close the distance between us. “No. I’ve just . . . never shared clothes.”
Snagging a pair of navy basketball shorts, he tosses them my way. “Good. Start with me. I want that first and I want it now.”
Laughing, I pull on the navy shorts, going commando.
Grant opens another drawer, wiggles an eyebrow, then spins a pair of red underwear on his finger. When he pulls them on, my chest heats again.
“Whoa.”
He glances down at the form-fitting underwear that emphasizes