Page 25 of Scoring Grey

“I’m Eloise.” She extends her hand with a big smile.

Moon stands and takes it and places a kiss on top, a move I don’t love, but I accept because I know it’s customary where he’s from, and I’ve seen him do it on multiple occasions. “You have very soft hands, Eloise. My name is Szymon, but you can call me Moon.”

“Thank you.” Her cheeks heat, and I pull her arm back.

“That’s enough. Eloise, this is Roe.”

Roe doesn’t touch her. Instead, he pats the seat beside him. “Slide in. We’re ready to hear all the embarrassing shit about Balfour from high school.”

Eloise moves to do just that, and I say, “Ah ah,” and pull her back. “I’ll slide in. You can have the outside.”

She shakes her head but acquiesces without remark all the same. The second we’re seated, the bartender is at the table. “What can I get the two of you to drink?”

“I’ll have a Bloody Mary, please,” Lou orders.

“I’ll take whatever ale you have on tap,” I add as I drape my arm over Eloise’s shoulder.

“Can I get the two of you another round?” the waiter asks the guys, and I drown out their answers.

Leaning in, I whisper in Eloise’s ear, “What happened to your sweater?”

Instinctively, she turns to undoubtedly yell but doesn’t account for how close that puts our faces. Her pretty mouth is mere inches away from mine, and I want a taste of it so damn bad, and by the way her chest is rising and falling, it’s clear the same thoughts aren’t far from her mind either.

“Your place is drafty. I wore the cardigan to keep warm, but it wasn’t my outfit. When I went to the restroom, I slipped it off. I thought this was more fitting than my chunky knit sweater when sitting in a booth full of men wearing suits. Do you not like it?”

“I think we both know I like it. That’s the problem. The amount of skin you’re showing should be for my eyes only.” I run my forefinger under the thin strap of material covering her shoulder. Her skin pebbles under my touch, and my cock takes note. Her body still responds to my touch the way it always did.

Our shared breaths mingle as her eyes drop to my mouth and her tongue dips out to moisten her lips. I’m seconds away from getting what I’ve been dying for, but she clears her throat.

“Um, have you forgotten we’re not alone?”

“Say the word, and I can make them disappear.” I lean in enough so our mouths are a hairsbreadth apart. I won’t close the distance. Only she can do that.

“Cal,” she draws out as her hand pushes into my chest. “Besides”—she turns her focus to the guys—“I’m here for the juicy gossip. They want details, but so do I. A story for a story.”

The waiter returns with our drinks, and I suddenly regret not ordering something stronger.

Two hours have felt like one minute as I’ve sat with my girl tucked into my side, sitting around a table with two of my best friends. Living this moment with her feels surreal. Eloise laughs at another one of Moon’s outrageous stories. When I first met him, I thought half of what he said was for the shock factor. There’s no way someone could have that many off-the-wall stories, but then I met his dad. Back home, his family owns a pub, and growing up, Moon spent many nights behind the bar while his parents worked. “I’ve been meaning to ask. How did you get the nickname Moon?”

He runs his hand over his barely existent short blond hair. “You don’t think it’s because of my hair?”

“Hair changes. I doubt people call you Moon because you’re going through your Eminem circa 2000 era,” she teases.

Roe laughs so hard that beer comes from his nose while Moon’s mouth drops open. “Who’s Eminem?”

“Never mind, just tell the story,” I cut in and hold Eloise closer, soaking in the last five minutes we have left at the bar before I have to hop on a plane.

“It’s my least entertaining story, really. When my sister was learning to say my name, she would always say Szym-o-on, drawing out the last few syllables.” He shrugs. “Somewhere along the line, it got shortened to Moon, and it stuck.”

“You guys are close then?” Eloise asks.

“Yeah, when we’re on the same continent, she’s not too bad.”

“How about you, Roe, any siblings?” she queries.

“Nope, I’m an only child, just like your boy.” He punches my shoulder. “But I have a lot of cousins who come to the games, and my pops is usually in the box for every home game. We keep telling Balfour he needs somebody to watch him play. Then maybe he’ll actually hit the puck.”

“I don’t need an audience in the stands. I’ve been playing solo for years.”

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