Page 29 of The Virgin Game Plan (Rules of Love 2)
I join in, roaring too.
Layla gets in on the big catcall as well.
We crack up, and I loop an arm around one, then the other. “You’re the best. I missed you two. And you’re right. I didn’t let some hot-ass man stop me from making my big-girl career choices, and look where I am now. I have an awesome new job as a manager at a publicity firm—all because I have unique experience and my own damn podcast. Yay, me.”
“You know it, friend.”
“And besides, I moved on in my own way, focusing on work and myself. I’m sure Holden did too. He probably has a girlfriend. I’m not going to reach out.” I wave a hand airily. “Who cares, right?”
“I will drink to that,” Tia says.
We lift our glasses and toast, then Tia shoots me a knowing look. “And if anyone deserves time-out for not telling you, it should be Grant. He’ll be here in about fifteen minutes.”
After the requisite hug, I shove my BFF on the chest.
News flash—Grant doesn’t move. He’s made of brick.
“What the hell?”
Tia waves a hand in my direction. “Good luck dealing with her ire. She’s already put us through the wringer.” She grabs Layla by the arm. “Let’s go get some food going while Reese tortures Grant.”
“May the force be with you, Grant,” Layla calls out as she sails into the kitchen.
The four of us were all friends in college, even though Grant is two years older. But the running joke was that he and I were a package deal.
Grant and I have known each other pretty much our whole lives. We played sports together, grew up together. Escaped our homes together when the fighting between my parents or his parents became too much. We’d take refuge in my grandparents’ house or his. It didn’t matter, since our grandmothers were besties.
Grant and I discovered boys together too.
He took a little longer to decide he only liked boys. He dated a few girls in high school, but the reports when he returned home from the movies, or coffee, or pizza were all, It was so-so, or It was whatever, or I’m just not that into her.
When he came out to me as gay at the end of high school, I was so happy for him to be living his authentic life, though that was an intense time for him.
As we flop onto the couch, he drags a hand through his messy dark-blond hair. “So, what did I do wrong?”
I peer at him, playing at being over-the-top annoyed. “Holden Kingsley.” I pause like a cross-examiner waiting for a response, even though I’m the one who has a confession to make. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
He raises his hands in surrender. “I didn’t do him. He’s straight as an arrow.”
I roll my eyes. “I know that! The issue is you didn’t tell me that he was traded to the San Francisco Dragons.”
He raises a curious brow. “Should I have? There were about a hundred other trades in the off-season that I didn’t tell you about either. But if you want me to keep you apprised, we can discuss a revision to our friendship pact along those lines. Grant Blackwood is hereby responsible for keeping Reese Fallon informed of all Major League Baseball trades. This may be exhausting, ridiculous, and downright silly, but if she deems it important, Grant will do it.”
“Thank you. That’s how our friendship works.”
He laughs, shaking his head. Then he stops, quirks up his lips, and studies me. “Hold on a minute, girl. Did you fail to mention something about that day with Holden? Did you get more than an interview with him and not dish the dirt?”
And that’s my confession. I never told him about that night. I wince, a tiny smidge of guilt for keeping that to myself.
My gut twists as I serve up the truth. “Holden and I had a thing the night of the interview. It was amazing, but I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t want anything to affect how you saw him as a player, an opponent, or a teammate if he ever became one.”
His eyes narrow, and he growls. “You’re in trouble.”
“I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you everything, but I truly didn’t want you to go all overprotective big brother if you decided you didn’t like him or if it didn’t work out with him and me.” I sigh. “But then it didn’t work out anyway because I went to South America.”
His expression shifts from mildly annoyed to six ways of delighted. “You banged him. You lost your V-card to Holden Kingsley, and you never told me. Who’s in trouble now?”
I nip that falsehood in the bud. “We didn’t bang. I swear. We, um . . .”
Do I tell him? Does he want those details?
