Page 39 of The Play

Okay, it hadn’t just been a kiss; it had been so much more than that. It had been the kiss.

The Kiss.

There was a part of him that desperately wished it had been bigger and better and more intense. Less a simple brushing of their lips and more an eager meeting of mouths. That he’d gotten to touch Deacon. That Deacon had touched him.

He couldn’t even say it had been ultimately dissatisfying. It had been really, really nice, in fact. Just . . .not everything he wanted.

Not even close.

How had he ever thought one single kiss would be?

Grant scrubbed a hand over his face and tried to refocus on either his email—not working—or the game in front of him—not holding his interest either, even though the Toronto Thunder were playing the Piranhas hard, only down three points heading into halftime.

Aidan Flynn, Riley’s older brother, was playing lights out, and they seemed to be one of the only teams in the NFL that could match the Piranhas this year.

And us, we can match them and we’re gonna beat them the next time, Grant thought.

At least that was a better—and more productive—thought than kissing Deacon.

Grant glanced down at his phone. He’d been contemplating texting Deacon all day. And yesterday, too.

But he hadn’t.

What could he even say?

They’d said everything, already.

Which was why, Grant assumed, he’d not heard a word. And why he hadn’t texted Deacon either.

He groaned and forced himself to look from his phone to the TV, just in time to see Dylan Leonard, the Piranhas kicker, send the ball through the uprights, a forty-eight-yard field goal attempt to put the Piranhas up six going into halftime.

A moment later Darcy bustled in carrying a big takeout bag of food in one hand and a six-pack of hard cider in the other, her big shoulder bag slung over one arm. He could see her tablet and her laptop peeping out of the corner of it.

“You look terrible,” she said, assessing him with one single penetrating look.

Like he had Shit, I kissed Deacon Harris written on his forehead in bright red marker.

“I haven’t slept well the last two nights,” Grant admitted, pushing himself up from the couch and helping Darcy arrange the food on the coffee table. She shot him a look.

“Why not?” she asked.

He probably didn’t need to tell her about the kiss. She’d seen the almost-kiss, hadn’t she? It was probably obvious, but clearly, she wanted him to tell her.

But he could be just as stubborn as Darcy.

“There’s not much going on right now at InTech. Stock’s up, and you solved the Singapore issue,” Darcy said, ticking off items on her fingers. “As for the Condors . . .well, you won this week. You’re second in the division, only to the Piranhas, who look like they’re gonna take it all this year. But if you make the playoffs, which is looking pretty good, you’re going to massively exceed every pre-season expectation. So why on earth aren’t you sleeping?”

Grant flopped back against the couch. She definitely knew.

It wasn’t even like he didn’t want to tell her. Darcy was not just his assistant, she was also his best, closest friend.

“You know why,” Grant grumped to her.

She popped the top on a bottle of hard cider and handed it to him. He took a small sip, staring unseeing at the commercials playing on the TV.

“If you end up dating Deacon, can I watch when you tell Cheryl Smith where she can stick all her ‘concerns and worries’?” Darcy asked, sounding far more eager than Grant was entirely comfortable with.

“I’m not going to date Deacon, and I’m not going to tell Cheryl Smith to fuck off.” But oh, he wanted to. On both counts.

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