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

Then he removes his hand from my jeans, and I unleash a groan of blue-balled frustration.

But relief too. Not sure how long I could have handled that.

And yet I also want to handle everything.

I want the tease. I want the time. I want him to toy with me all night long. And I want to toy with him. Drive him as wild as he drives me.

“Let’s talk and not-drink first,” Declan says.

“I’ll not-drink to that,” I say, then raise the glass and clink it to his.

Before he takes a sip, he studies our glasses, touching each other. I can tell he’s hunting for something to toast to.

I asked him out, so I wait for him to toast. This is our give-and-take. I want to know how we take steps toward each other.

His lips quirk. Then he says, “To new beginnings?”

He’s not sexy, naughty Declan right now. He’s the vulnerable guy I fell in love with once upon a time.

A guy I’m pretty sure I could fall wildly in love with again.

“To new beginnings,” I repeat, then take a virgin drink.





26





Declan





I blame the margarita.

It cools me off, and the drink helps me turn down the heat of the moment. That’s good, in a way, because I want to take my time tonight. I want to enjoy every second of this evening out with Grant Blackwood.

This night feels like it exists in its own sultry, hazy, sexy plane of existence. But I’m acutely aware, and I suspect he is too, that if we stand a chance of having something real this time around, it needs to start with more than flirting.

More than sex.

It needs to start with hard truths.

That’s where I begin after I drain the glass. “I started seeing someone in the last year,” I say.

Grant blanches, his eyes bugging out. “What?”

I reach for his hand to reassure him but pull back at the last second, realizing I shouldn’t touch him like this in public. Not until we’ve figured out the new ground rules for that, and all that a public touch, not an under-the-table one, entails. “A therapist,” I quickly correct.

He breathes in deep relief. “You asshole. You scared the fuck out of me.”

I laugh, diffusing the tension. “I’d never do that. I meant—I’m seeing a therapist. Her name is Carla. She’s fantastic and wise and insightful. And she’s helping me with a ton of things.”

Grant’s grin is different from the ones he flashed my way earlier. Different, too, from the I’m happy to see you smile, or the you’re turning me inside out one. It’s warm, authentic, and seems to come straight from the heart. “That’s awesome. How did you decide? Is it okay to ask you that?” he asks.

“You can ask. It was actually my mom’s idea,” I tell Grant. “She suggested it about a year ago, when we were in Tokyo over the holidays. She’s been seeing someone basically since my dad left. She’s a big advocate of therapy, and she thought it could be good for me.”

“And is it? Good for you?”

“It is, but it’s really fucking hard.” I mime cracking my chest open with a can opener. “It’s like spilling your guts and hoping the people around you still want to hang out with you.”

He gives me a sympathetic smile. “Not your favorite thing to do—spilling your guts.”

I shake my head. “But I’m learning. We’re working through a lot of shit. Like the way I took everything on when I was younger, to protect my mom from my father’s downward spiral. How I tried to protect myself from him, how I put on blinders a lot of the time.”

“It’s what you had to do to get through,” he says.

“Or so I thought.”

“And now?” he asks. I’m grateful Grant’s taking this in stride, that he’s asking genuine questions, that he’s not scared off by my baggage.

“Now, I’m learning to be more open. To try to trust.” I draw a steadying breath. That word—trust—is the cornerstone of my issues.

Trust is so damn hard. But I want to get there. I want to trust that the world won’t fall apart around me. Trust that I don’t have to fix everything. Trust that I’m enough.

Grant reaches under the table for my hand, clasping it in his. “Man, I have to say I’m really happy for you. I’ve never been to a counselor, but it seems like it’s working for you. You seem like . . .”

I arch a brow. “A different person?”

He shakes his head, his tone adamant. “You don’t need to be a different person. I always liked who you were. Who you are. I think you seem like a more content version of yourself.”

“You can say it.” I goad him, squeezing his fingers.

“Say what?” He furrows his brow.

“A better version. I was kind of an ass.”

“You weren’t an ass. Not at all. If you were a jerk before, I wouldn’t have liked you. And I liked you. So much,” he says, his tone intense, then a little softer as he adds, “I just wanted to know more of you.”

“I want you to know more of me, Grant. I think I’m capable of that now,” I tell him, feeling completely vulnerable, stripping naked in a whole new way. This is what I need to do for us to have a chance. “We talk about you too.”