Page 49 of The Play

“Do you have—” Grant asked Darcy even though he was still staring intently at Deacon.

“Yes,” she finished. Then Darcy turned and walked out.

Leaving them alone again.

“I was going to tell you that there wasn’t anything for you to do, because I already did it. I sent all our hard drives to the commissioner’s office. They copied them overnight, and Darcy brought them back. As proof, for them, that we didn’t do anything Rex said we did.”

“You sent all the hard drives? Like the Condors’ computers?” Deacon asked.

Grant nodded. “From the admin side, yeah. They would’ve wanted them eventually. But this way, by volunteering them, hopefully we can get some good PR in the press, nip the stories in the bud before they become an avalanche.”

“You’re not worried—”

Grant’s expression morphed into shock. “You think I’ve got something to hide?”

Deacon remembered how he’d asked, only a few months back, if he trusted him. Realized that for Grant, his trust was a precious, important thing.

“No, no, of course you don’t. But you don’t think anyone else does?” Deacon wanted to touch him again, to reassure him, or else that was the lie he told himself, but he knew if he did, he wouldn’t stop at a single touch.

No matter how much he wanted to fight for Grant and wanted to love him the way he deserved, he knew it was wrong to do this here.

In his office. In this building.

“No,” Grant said. “And I’m betting my ownership of this team on it.”

Deacon nodded. “Alright. We need to talk—”

Grant raised an eyebrow and he lost his train of thought.

“We do,” he repeated. “Just talk. I mean not that I would mind . . .” He was unsure if he should even say what he wouldn’t mind here, in this office.

You were ready to do it in this office, before Darcy walked in.

“Yes,” Grant said. “But this week is crazy busy. I don’t know when I’ll have a free second.”

Deacon could tell he was pushing him away. Cold-shouldering him. Even after that kiss. When it was absolutely fucking clear just how much Grant wanted him.

“No,” Deacon said.

Grant eyed him steadily. This was CEO Grant. Grant who faced down a whole boardroom out for his throat.

It wasn’t like Deacon couldn’t hold his own—he could—but Grant had never looked at him like this. Like he was something he needed to fight against. Like he was the enemy.

“I’m sure both of us are busy this week.” Grant’s voice was still conversational, and yet Deacon wanted to put his fist through the wall, anyway.

That’s not fighting for him. That’s just fighting him. Beck’s voice echoed in his head and kept him from losing his temper entirely.

“Not too busy to discuss this,” Deacon ground out.

“There isn’t anything to discuss,” Grant said. He looked like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, but he was lying.

Deacon knew it. Grant knew it. Even Darcy probably knew it.

“That’s bullshit. We have something. We are something,” Deacon argued.

But Grant was implacable. “I told you the other night, this can’t happen. The commissioner’s got a freaking microscope on us. I’m not going to burn this all down because I have a . . .a . . .” He hesitated.

“A hard-on? Because you did. So did I.” Deacon knew how bitter he sounded. “Of course, if that’s all it is for you.” That wasn’t all it was for him. Didn’t think it was for Grant, either, but what did he know anymore?

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