Page 161 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
Grant leads me down the hallway toward the bathrooms, pressing his forehead against mine once we’re out of sight. His voice is rough. “I can’t stand not being able to touch you.”
“I know,” I whisper back. “But you should really back up before someone sees you.”
“I know. But I tend to get reckless when I’m forced to pretend I’m not into a beautiful woman.”
“You think I’m beautiful?”
His smile is boyish, unguarded. “You know you’re gorgeous.Fine, fine,as I’ve heard Luca say about his mysterious woman.”
Before I can scold him, his hand slides to the back of my neck, pulling me into a deep, lingering kiss. I melt against him.
Then, with that familiar mischievous glint, he tugs me into the men’s room.
“Ah!” I yelp, half-laughing, half-scandalized.
And while Grant swears it’ll only be a few minutes, the “few” turns into fifteen—fifteen long, breathless minutes where he wrings me out against the wall and promises he’ll finish what he started later.
When we finally step back into the hallway, cheeks flushed, hearts still racing, Grant can’t resist grabbing a full handful of my ass. I yelp again, spinning to smack his chest before stealing another quick kiss.
But that was reckless.
Because the second I turn around, Darren Jones is there. A few feet away. Frozen. His eyes bounce from my lips to Grant’s hand still hovering near me, to my flushed face. Stunned.
“Coach. Darren,” I start, voice trembling, but the words fall apart. What could I even say?
“Jesus, Eslin.” His voice is sharp, wounded. “I knew you were holding back from me, but I thought it was something from your fucked-up childhood—”
Grant’s voice cuts in with a growl, dangerous. “I’d be very careful about the next words out of your mouth, Jones.”
Darren’s gaze flicks to Grant, and then back to me. His jaw tightens before he huffs out a humorless laugh and shakes his head.
“Yeah,” he mutters, bitter. “Sure thing. Boss.” Then he turns and walks away.
I whip back to Grant, panic flooding through me. “What the fuck are we going to do?”
He looks at me, just as rattled, though his expression hardens with resolve.
“We have to tell Marlow.”
Chapter forty-nine
Comfort Food & Consequences
Declan
I’ve had more turkey than a man should reasonably consume in one sitting, an obscene portion of something glorious called candied yams, and just enough sweet tea to drown a horse. Add to that the growing headache from the army of ponytails Gladys’ daughter, Julia, has knotted into my hair, and I’m not exactly at my sharpest. And yet, I’d still rather endure this than answer Xavier Darcy’s wife, who’s spent the better part of the afternoon asking if I’m connected to the Agassi Crime Syndicate in Italy. For the record, I was always told to never answer that question—and for my own safety, and my wife's, I'm avoiding eye contact with the short-haired woman at all costs.
Nevertheless, my first American Thanksgiving isn’t nearly as grim as I imagined. In fact, it’s…good. Warm. Loud and a little hectic, full of laughter, food, and family in a way I hadn’t realized I missed. And yes, a part of me wishes I could take Marlow home to meet my father and my nonna. But I don’t mind that, for now, the days begin and end with just her.
I don’t mind that she’s my family now.
Maybe it’s the way she’s finally letting me take care of her. Maybe it’s the way she trusts me with her secrets, piece by fragile piece. Or maybe it has everything to do with how our mornings usually start—with my wife firmly planted on my face. Whatever it is, something about this wild, unexpected marriage, about the way we’ve stitched ourselves together, feels like magic. Like it was always meant to be. And that, without question, is something I can give thanks for again and again.
Speaking of Señora Agassi, I seem to have lost track of her. She’s been working the room and it’s been torture keeping my eyes off of her. Call it separation anxiety, but I like having eyes on my wife. Knowing where she is and that she’s safe.
I weave through the banquet hall, first finding Tatum with a drink in hand. “Have you seen Marlow?”
Tatum shrugs. “She went that way, I think.”
