Page 121 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
The moment the music fades, so does the little bit of calm I was clinging to.
Coach Jones and I step off the dance floor, and before I can fully catch my breath, Tatum slides up beside me like she’s rescuing a cat from a burning building.
“The banquet area’s ready, and dinner service is about to start,” she says, low. Then she leans in closer, eyes apologetic. “And I’m sorry in advance for the seating arrangement.”
My stomach tightens. “What does that mean?”
Before she can answer, Darren steps in, still smiling from our dance. “Everything okay?”
I glance toward the edge of the dance floor, instinctively searching for Grant—but he’s gone. Like a ghost that only I could see. A haunting I’m not sure I’m ready to give up.
“No. I mean…yeah.” I force a smile. “Just…ready to eat?”
“Starving,” Darren says, and the three of us make our way toward the banquet area.
I can’t help it. I keep looking. Scanning every corner, every dimly lit lounge space. No Grant.
The banquet setup is modern opulence. Long velvet-draped tables stretched across the room, framed by sleek leather dining chairs. Low lighting glows from gold-trimmed sconces. Instead of traditional round tables, there are lounge-style groupings—black leather sofas and marble cocktail tables mixed in with dining spots. It’s like the high-end Supper Club met a luxury sports lounge, and they had a perfect, moody baby.
We make it to our assigned table, and that’s when I see it.
Two name cards. My name nestled betweenGrant Millson one side, andCoach Darren Joneson the other.
My entire body goes still.
Tatum winces as she slides into a seat across from me. “I told you I was sorry,” she whispers.
Darren holds out my chair like the gentleman he is, and I sit. Slowly. Dreading the burn I know is coming the moment Grant walks up and claims the seat on my other side.
He doesn’t make me wait long. I feel him first. That quiet gravity pulling at my skin.
And then he’s there. Sitting beside me.
Close enough to feel. Close enough to touch.
Chapter thirty-five
Private Suites & Public Secrets
Grant
I’m not a jealous man.
At least, I didn’t think I was.
I was married to a woman who looked like she was carved from Roman marble. Maddy was graceful, poised, and impossible to ignore. Men stared. Whispered. Bought her drinks right in front of me. But I never blinked. Never doubted her loyalty to me.
But apparently, two decades and one stolen taste of Eslin Saunders is all it takes to turn me into a murderous maniac.
Because right now, the way Darren Jones has his hands on her waist makes me want to put my fist through a wall. Or his face. Either works.
And the worst part about all of this is she’s smiling.
Not politely. Not professionally.
Smiling like she’s free. Happy. Like she forgot I exist.
It’s fair. I’m not hers. She’s not mine.
