Page 29 of The Play

Almost happened.

Deacon clearly wasn’t a good person, because he was more disappointed at the almost than angry at himself that they’d ended up in that situation to begin with.

But no matter how much self-flagellation he was currently enduring, Deacon didn’t want to call Jem. He was with his family, in Christmas Falls, and if Deacon called him, he knew he’d come back, immediately.

You should be able to figure this shit out, without needing your hand held.

He couldn’t even blame Grant for walking away without even looking at him. That had been the right call. They’d been right on the precipice of breaking all their unspoken rules, and if Deacon had leaned down and kissed Grant . . .

Deacon groaned out loud.

What he needed was another cold shower, not to think about what could’ve happened if they’d both lost their collective minds.

His phone dinged, and for a split second, Deacon hoped it was Grant.

He imagined what Grant might say. I’m coming over. Nevermind that Grant had never been to his townhouse before. I want to see you. I need you. I don’t care that you’re off-limits, I can’t stop looking at you. Or thinking about you.

Grant’s words merged with his own thoughts until they were one and the same.

But when he rolled over with a pained grunt, trying to ignore his rock hard cock, and glanced at his phone, he was inevitably disappointed.

The text wasn’t from Grant. Wasn’t from Jem, either.

It was from Carter. Official victory party tomorrow night at the Pirate’s Booty, the text read. And then right under it, another message. You want to invite Mr. G or should I?

Deacon groaned again.

He didn’t want to go to a Pirate’s Booty party. And he especially didn’t want to go if Grant was there.

The problem with Carter was now he’d found personal happiness, he wanted everyone to have it, even if it wasn’t in the cards.

Of course, it didn’t matter how many times he told himself that Grant wasn’t the man for him, the more his dick seemed to cling to the idea and refuse to let it go.

And not just his dick.

Deacon wasn’t stupid enough to think it was only his body that wanted the guy.

He typed back. I’ll be there. Don’t invite Mr. G. Don’t make it weird, Carter.

Carter responded almost immediately. Shouldn’t we be saying that to you? I saw you two gettin’ real cozy tonight before we left.

Deacon tossed his phone back on the table, deciding that it wasn’t a good idea to even get into that circular argument with Carter.

Better that, though, than the circular argument you’re having with yourself.

He rolled back and grabbed his phone. But didn’t text Carter. Pulled up another conversation. The last message was from earlier today, when Grant had wished him luck before kickoff. Not that you’ll need it, he’d added.

For a long time, he fought himself. He knew what he wanted to say. I don’t regret it. I only regret that Darcy interrupted us. But Deacon didn’t know if that was true. If he kissed Grant, he wouldn’t want to stop there. He’d want all of him, all of the time. And Deacon wasn’t stupid enough to think that was even possible. Grant successfully ran the Condors and a Fortune 500 company. Even with his skills at delegating, he was still one of the busiest people Deacon knew.

Instead, he ended up sending something else.

Hope you got your small to medium-sized Singapore problem worked out.

He was sure that Grant wouldn’t answer right away. After all, he was no doubt busy untangling the small to medium-sized Singapore problem.

But to Deacon’s surprise, his answer came through right away.

All fixed, Grant replied. Happy Thanksgiving.

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