Three little dots pop up almost immediately.
Grant: I wish I was there with you instead of imagining you all comfy and making it impossible to focus on anything else.
Okay, sir. We are not jumping straight into making me blush in my own house. I take another sip of wine, pretending I’m cooler than I am.
Me: That sounds like a you problem ??
Grant: Oh, it definitely is. But I’m willing to suffer if it means I get to see you again.
My lips curve, slow and helpless.
Me: Bold strategy. Is it working?
Grant: Depends. Are you smiling right now?
I glance around my empty living room like someone might be watching me flirt with my phone.
Me: …maybe.
Grant: I’ll take that as a win.
I shift in my chair, crossing my legs, suddenly very aware that I’m in leggings and a tank top and smelling like vanilla candles and expensive wine and soft girl energy.
Grant: So tell me I can take you out Friday night.
I glance down at my Kindle again, at the dominant, protective hero who knows exactly what he wants and isn’t shy about going after it. And then I think about what I just told myself. That I’m ready. I want more. Someone who shows up and takes charge and makes me feel like I don’t have to hold the whole world up by myself anymore. Maybe Grant could be that guy. Maybe he’s the kind of man who opens doors, makes plans, and means it when he says he wants to see me again. My thumbs hover for half a second. Then I decide to stop overthinking it.
Me: Friday works.
The reply comes fast.
Grant: I’ll pick you up at seven. Wear those heels you love.
Okay, that one definitely does things to me.
Me: Confident, aren’t you?
Grant: When I want something, yeah. And right now, I want you across the table from me.
My chest tightens in that soft, hopeful way that scares me a little.
Me: Then I’ll see you Friday, Grant Whitaker.
Grant: I’m counting the hours already, Brooke.
I set my phone down slowly and stare at the ceiling, letting out a quiet breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
God, I hope he’s real. I hope he’s steady and kind and strong in the way my books always promise but real life rarely delivers. I hope he’s the kind of man who takes care of his woman, who steps in when I’m tired of being the one in charge, who gives me the very thing I’ve been craving and pretending I don’t need. Maybe I finally found my book boyfriend in the wild.
I lift my wine glass to the universe, to fate, to whatever decided to send Grant into my open house. “Here’s to hoping,” I murmur.
TWO
JAVIER “REVOLVER” DOMINGO
Bella’s housesmells like garlic, cheese, and sugar, which tells me two things. One, she’s been cooking all damn day. Two, I’m not leaving hungry. I never leave hungry. When I walk into the kitchen, there’s a whole spread on the counter. Buffalo chicken dip is still bubbling in the crockpot, sliders stacked high, chips and pretzels everywhere, and a bowl of something green she keeps calling salad like that makes us respectable adults. No one is going to go near that shit.
Switch already has a plate loaded and is hovering like the dip might grow legs and sprint off the counter.
