Page 17 of Worth the Fight

Why does the simple action make it seem so hard to swallow?

He takes another step.

“What are you building outside?”

“A playroom.”

A nervous chuckle falls from my lips as I think of all of the versions of playrooms I’ve read about in my romance books. My cheeks stain red as I imagine Grady with a flogger in one hand standing beside a St. Andrew’s Cross.

“A playroom?”

“Yeah.” He takes a step closer so we’re breathing the same air, his voice husky enough to cause every part of my body to grow alert. “A playroom. You know . . . a pool table. Foosball. A real man cave.”

I exhale a shaky sigh, suddenly more than aware that he’s so close, shirtless, sweaty, and smelling like sun and soap mixed together. But it’s his eyes that make my thoughts falter. There’s an intensity to them I don’t expect from the perpetually cheerful Grady Malone.

“Ah, that kind of playroom . . .” But my words trail off as he steps even closer and braces his hands on the counter on either side of my hips. I can hear his intake of breath. The music floating in from outside. The pound of my pulse in my ears.

“Hey, Dyl?”

“Yes?” Our eyes hold, my lips fall lax.

“I need you to open up.”

“What?” I question as his hand brushes against my hip and his fingers pull on the drawer handle I’m standing in front of.

“I need the bottle opener. You’re standing in front of the drawer it’s in.” His lips spread into a full-fledged grin as I scramble away from the counter and, of course, run smack dab into the hardness, all six foot plus of him.

And then I rebound off him again in a flustered state that has him laughing and me stuttering. “Sorry. I wasn’t—I didn’t . . .” His arms hold on to my biceps to steady me, which prompts me to look up and meet his eyes.

“We need to stop meeting like this,” he murmurs, the heat of his breath hitting my lips.

“We do.” Brilliant, Dylan. Freaking brilliant response. “I’ve gotta . . . I’ve gotta get back to . . . to writing.”

“Okay,” he says, that lopsided grin deepening and forcing his dimples to spark to life. Still, his hands remain where they are just as my feet do.

“What’s the holdup, Grady?” The words come seconds before feet clomp on the hardwood floor and then fall silent.

We shock apart as if burned by lightning. “I was just leaving.” I’m met with an expression so similar to Grady’s that the two may as well be twins.

“Not so fast.” He walks into the kitchen as Grady opens the drawer behind me and grabs the bottle opener. “Grant Malone. Nice to meet you.”

He extends a hand, which I shake. “Dylan McCoy.”

“You look like your brother,” he says.

I quirk an eyebrow. “Well . . .”

“Not like that.” He laughs when he realizes telling me I look like a guy isn’t exactly flattering. “I just meant coloring, expressions, and . . . okay, I’ll stick my foot in my mouth now.”

“No, it’s okay. I know what you mean. How do you know him?”

“We had a boys’ trip a few years back.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, it’s nice to meet you.” Grant looks at Grady and then back to me as awkwardness settles into the room.

My cell rings.

It’s loud and echoes off the granite countertops of the kitchen and from the ring alone I know who it is.