How long has he been watching?
His expression is unreadable. Perfectly neutral. But his gaze? Heavy. Intentionally so.
Like he knows exactly what I’m thinking about. Like he’s daring me to keep going.
My jaw tightens.
Eve’s words echo in my head, low and taunting: “...when you admit who you want to come for.”
I swallow hard, grip my napkin tighter than necessary.
“Please, excuse me a moment,” I say, already pushing back from the table.
“Of course.” Isabelle sits back and takes a drink of her white wine.
I nod, mutter thanks, and make a beeline for the hallway. My hands shake as I shove the door open to the marble-lined bathroom—cool and echoing.
I lean over the sink. Breathe.
My pulse is a snare drum. My throat is dry.
And my cock is a fucking brick in my slacks like I’m some hormonal intern who can’t keep it together over one look.
One look.
I splash cold water on my face, press my palms to the porcelain, and stare at myself in the mirror.
This is not just about Eve’s little game.
This is about Dante. What happened. What almost happened.
And the part of me that’s still furious I stopped it.
Idon’t need to look to know he’s unraveling.
But I do anyway—because watching Grant Harrow try to hold it together might just be the highlight of my fucking week.
I make a mental note to thank Eve later. Flowers, maybe. Or I can sit her on my desk and make her come on my face a few times. Whatever it is, she’s earned it. Because this seating arrangement? A work of strategic brilliance.
Across the room, Grant sits stiff-backed in his chair, soft tan now betraying him with the warm flush rising in his cheeks. He’s run a hand through that dirty-blond hair at least a dozen times in the last ten minutes, each pass more agitated than the last. The perfectly sculpted strands now stand in rebellion, messier than I’ve seen them in years.
His fingers drum against the table—a pathetic little outlet for the storm gathering in those blue-gray eyes. The ones he keepsflicking over to me. Every few seconds, without fail. Like he can’t help himself.
And fuck, do I love how beautiful jealousy looks on him.
Am I playing it up?
You’re damn right I am.
Matheus da Costa throws his head back, laughing at some story I can’t even remember finishing. We’ve spent the last twenty minutes talking about his three-year-old daughter and how she already has better footwork than half his team.
“Natural talent,” he’d said proudly, placing a hand over his heart. “Just like her papa.”
I’d leaned in with a grin, chuckled in that low way I know carries across the room. “I’d expect nothing less.”
He’s easy to like—charming, grounded, surprisingly earnest. And globally adored. You don’t have to know football to know his face. The man’s practically a brand of his own.
Grant knows who he is.
