Page 28 of The Play

Darcy saying, “Grant? Are you up here? You’re not answering your phone. Oh, there you are.”

He looked over as she stopped in her tracks, his hand still on Deacon’s chest. He hadn’t moved that far back. Grant was still partially shielded by Deacon’s much bigger body.

But not enough, because Darcy had clearly seen him.

Seen them.

Grant braced himself for weeks of knowing looks and persuasive arguments—the same arguments he’d just been trying to justify to himself, now reduced to ashes in his mind.

They couldn’t do this.

He hadn’t come here to destroy Deacon’s—and the Condors’—reputation even further.

He stepped around Deacon, pulling his hand away. Pretending the whole time that it wasn’t the hardest thing he’d ever done.

“Darcy,” he said, stopping short of where she stood.

“There’s a problem in Singapore,” she said briskly, like she hadn’t just caught them practically kissing—practically kissing, but not actually kissing, his brain yelped, not sure whether to be thrilled or devastated about this.

“You could’ve—”

“You weren’t answering your phone,” she said, tilting her head.

“Yes, I guess I wasn’t.” Grant didn’t pull it out of his pocket. Check for missed calls. Because he knew he’d see them.

He’d let Deacon distract from not just his responsibilities to the Condors but to InTech, too.

“What kind of problem?” Grant asked, trying to get himself back under control. Thinking about work—that usually helped.

He didn’t glance back at Deacon. Wasn’t sure what he’d see if he did.

Couldn’t be held responsible for what he’d do if Deacon looked as disappointed as he felt.

“Small to medium-ish,” Darcy said. She was the one who looked back at Deacon as they headed for the exit. “Do you need to . . .”

“No,” Grant said resolutely. If he looked back, if he talked to Deacon, his good intentions would crumble, and he couldn’t afford for that to happen.

Thousands of people depended on him to make good, reasoned decisions. And Grant already knew Deacon wasn’t a good or a reasoned decision.

“Alright,” she said, shooting Deacon one more glance.

Deacon went home.

Took a cold shower.

Lay in bed, stared at the shadowed ceiling, and tried to tell himself that he hadn’t fucked up everything beyond belief.

Part of him wanted to call Jem.

Beg his best friend to tell him what he should do.

Nothing. You should do absolutely fucking nothing.

But that had been what Deacon had been doing. No matter how he’d felt, he’d pushed it all down. Focused on what mattered: the team.

Doing the right thing for the Condors.

Tonight, he’d lost sight of that. Tonight, he’d let his desire off the chain, and look what had happened.

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