Winning With Him (Men of Summer #2) by Lauren Blakely

“Fine. You twisted my arm,” she says, clapping her hands. “I’ll do it. I’m going to send you a million gift cards for those spy books you love.”

“You don’t have to send me anything. I’m just glad you’re here,” I say with a smile, letting go of the teasing.

The truth is, I’m kind of nervous about tomorrow.

She turns on the faucet and meets my gaze. “Are you worried about tomorrow? First game and all?”

“Would you just like to see inside my soul a little more?”

“Ah, it’s pretty much cellophane to me right now.”

“Seems it is. But I think it’d be weird if I wasn’t nervous, right?”

She sticks her hand under the water, checking the temperature. “Being nervous is a good sign. When you want something, you’re going to have tons of feelings about it. And that’s what you have. You have deep, intense feelings about playing the sport you love in the Major Leagues. It’s incredible.”

I tip my forehead to the tub. “I do. Thanks for getting it, and me. Now, go enjoy your bath. I’m going to listen to a book while you relax.”

As I shut the bathroom door behind me, Reese moans happily. In the main suite, I flop onto the couch and click over to the book I’ve been listening to, popping in my AirPods. But I don’t even make it to the hero rappelling from the side of a bridge when my phone bleats.

I don’t recognize the number on the screen, but it starts with 415—the San Francisco area code.

My heart climbs into my throat.

I never memorized Declan’s number, but he had a San Francisco area code.

I’m sure it’s him.

Positive.

I stare at those ten digits as if I’m an astronomer getting a call from across the galaxy, a sign of intelligent life in the universe from light years away.

My breath comes fast. My pulse spikes. And my skin sizzles.

My stupid body betrays me with all this longing. All this want for him that eclipses any latent anger.

I swallow the desire and slide my thumb across the screen.

“Hello?” I sound disembodied. I feel disembodied.

A second later comes that low rumble of a voice. “Hey. It’s Declan.”

I’m glad I’m sitting, because if I weren’t, I might topple over.

“I know.” I don’t know what else to say.

“Congrats on making the roster,” he says. “I knew you would.”

I close my eyes, drag a hand down my face. A million questions flicker through my mind.

Why are you calling?

What are your secrets?

Why the hell did you break my heart?

“Thanks. Appreciate it,” I say, cool and even. The anger I thought was gone taps on my skull.

“Are you psyched for tomorrow?”

Is this really what he wants to talk about? Whether I’m happy to be starting? “What’s not to be excited about?” I say sarcastically, because . . . duh. “First Major League game.”

“I bet you homer in your first at-bat,” he says. The pride in his voice brings back what River said about Declan and me in the bar.

He was proud of you.

But so what if he was? What difference did it make? He still dumped me.

I scoff. “Don’t jinx me.”

“I’m happy for you, Grant,” he continues, his tone a little uneven, like the floor beneath him might be wobbly too. Good. “I don’t want to say I knew it was going to happen, but I had a good feeling.”

And you’re calling to say I told you so?

I’m quiet because I don’t want to let on I’m still hurt. Maybe more hurt than angry.

Yeah, the way my chest aches, hurt is more like it.

“So, um . . .” Declan says.

I don’t help him to fill in the gap. He called; he can be the one to keep talking.

Declan clears his throat. Starts over. “I called because . . .” He trails off again. “This is hard to say.”

Hard? This is hard for him? Fuck that. Try getting dumped via text by your boyfriend. “Did you leave your T-shirt in my room?” I lash out. “Or your flip-flops? Maybe some lube you want back?”

“I’m sorry,” he blurts.

I shake my head, squeeze my eyes shut, trying to process . . . an apology. I can’t, and my volume cranks up to eleven. “What? You’re sorry?”

Reese yells from the bathroom, “What’s going on? Who’s that?”

“No one,” I call out.

Declan takes a deep breath. “Did I call at a bad time?”

“It’s Reese. We’re hanging out,” I say quickly.

“I can phone later,” he says.

“No, it’s fine. She’s in the tub.” I’m not letting him go without an explanation. One that adds up. I need an answer. But I won’t ask for it. I’m just going to let Declan keep talking.

He sighs, and I’m glad that this is hard for him. So I make it harder by waiting.

“Listen, Grant, I messed up,” he says softly.

I blink. Sit up straighter. A tiny sliver of hope spreads inside me. “What do you mean?”

“I want to explain,” he adds. “Can I explain?”

Do I want to unravel the mystery of Declan Steele?

You bet I do.

Oh hell, do I ever.