Page 155 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
He nods.“When?”
I let out a sigh. “Working on that. But soon. Okay?”
He nods again. “Okay. Soon.”
Then his eyes soften, the fight in him quieting as they trace over my face. He exhales like it costs him something to say it. “What?” I ask.
He leans down, pressing his forehead against mine, his voice barely above a whisper. “You sure are pretty, Dr. Eslin Saunders. I wish I could kiss you.”
A quick glance toward the open doorway makes my pulse jump. No one’s coming. I rise onto my toes and press a fleeting kiss to his cheek.
His grin breaks through, crooked and irresistible. “What are we, in study hall?”
I smirk, lowering my voice to match his. “It’s a prelude, Mr. Mills. Come see me tonight.”
And because I know his daughter’s secret, I know she won’t be home to catch him sneaking into my place.
“Are you doing the team’s Thanksgiving dinner?” he asks.
Since so many of our players don’t have family nearby for the holiday, we decided to host a dinner here for anyone in the league who might otherwise spend it alone.
“I am. My friend Max is coming down, and she’s going to help me make all the pies.”
He smiles, and despite the salt and pepper streaking his hair, his grin is still boyish. Almost child-like. “I’m looking forward to it. To sharing a holiday with you.”
I shake my head, baffled by this new softness in me, and hear myself say, “It will be our first Thanksgiving together.”
His brows lift, teasing, but his voice dips lower. “Why, Eslin Saunders, do you plan to keep me around for a while?”
I smirk, covering nerves with bravado. “We’ll see.”
I say goodbye to Grant, excited about the promise of tonight. But just as soon as I turn to close my office door, my phone buzzes. A message from Marlow.
Marlow:Sunday dinner. After Thanksgiving. Daddy’s place. We’re decorating the Christmas tree. Be my buffer between me and my dad?
I stare at the text, my chest tightening. Family dinners. Traditions. Marlow tugging me even closer into her circle when I’m holding a secret that could blow it all apart.
I type back one word, my fingers shaking as I hit send.
Me:I’ll be there.
Chapter forty-seven
Sweet Potatoes & Sneaky Links
Eslin
It’s the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and while the offices are shut down, the Strikers’ staff has been working around the clock to transform the banquet hall into something that feels like home. With so many of the players far from their families, I told Tatum I wanted the space to feel like walking into a living room—warmth instead of polish. And my girl definitely delivered. Baby pictures taped to the walls, framed family portraits propped on side tables, old quilts thrown over the backs of couches. Not sterile. Not professional. Just…home.
Max arrives today, and since she despises peeling potatoes, I’m determined to have them done and ready to boil before she shows up. I’m in my kitchen, at my apartment, standing barefoot at the counter in nothing but one of Grant’s crisp white button-ups,working through the sweet potatoes for the pies I promised to bring.
The bowl on the counter is already half full, the peeler gliding through the skins in smooth curls. It should feel ordinary, almost domestic. But nothing about being wrapped up in this man feels simple.
I don’t even hear him approach—just feel him. His chest pressing against my back, his hands sliding around my waist, pulling me flush against him.
“Grant,” I warn, trying to keep my voice sharp even as my breath gives me completely away. “I’m not going to get anything done if you keep messing with me.”
“I don’t care,” he murmurs, and his breath fans across my neck like fire.
