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

Grant’s smile is electric. “I bet they loved having you.”

“I loved doing it,” I say softly, then add, “You kind of inspired me.”

Grant sits, his eyes intense. He takes my hand, wraps it around his wrist, covering his compass tattoo. “That means the world to me. Do you want to know why?” His tone takes on a new fervor.

“I do,” I answer with the same seriousness.

“I wasn’t even supposed to be here,” he says on a rough swallow.

I wrap my hand tighter around his wrist, sensing he needs the touch. “What do you mean by that?”

He draws a deep breath. “My parents didn’t want me. They wanted to have an abortion. They were going to.”

My heart craters, pain slicing through me. “Oh, Grant,” I say, sliding my fingers down to his hand and clasping it.

“When I was fourteen, I overheard them fighting. That wasn’t new. They always fucked and fought. This time, after they screwed, they argued about whether she was on the pill, which turned into arguing about how the condom broke when she got pregnant with me,” Grant says, biting out each word, hurt laced in his tone.

I hold his hand tighter, refusing to let go.

“Back then, twenty-seven years ago, my mother had an appointment at a clinic. She was all set to get an abortion. That’s what she wanted. And look, they were sixteen. I get that they were kids having kids. And I understand that some people consider an abortion and then are grateful they didn’t. But that’s not them. Most of my life, they treated me like I was a mistake. They treated Sierra the same way. Fourteen years after I was born, my mom still wished she’d gotten rid of me. That’s what she told my dad the day I overheard them, Deck,” he says, his voice wobbling painfully, “it was awful. They didn’t want me when she was pregnant, and they didn’t want me when I was a teenager either.”

I ache for him in every cell in my body. I want to hold him tight and take all the hurt away. “I’m so sorry you heard that. I’m so sorry that happened. I wish you’d never had to go through that.”

“Me too,” he says, but he soldiers on. “My grandma insisted on me—she made my mom keep me.”

My throat tightens, clogging with more emotion than I think I’ve ever felt, and it’s like a dam breaking.

“I love your grandma,” I blurt, when what I want to say is I love you so much. I love that you’re here, I love that she insisted on you, I love that you’re alive, and I love madly that you’re with me right now, because I’m pretty sure you’re the great love of my life.

“I love her too.” Grant’s voice trembles, but he keeps going. “I went to Reese’s house that night and told her what I’d heard.”

“What did she say?”

“She hugged me. Told me she loved me. Reminded me of the other people who did too, like Sierra and my grandparents. Now, I don’t even talk to my mom or dad much. Sometimes they show up at games. Sometimes at Thanksgiving. I’m nice to them and all, but they’re not really my family. They didn’t want me, and they didn’t try to want me.” He shudders, then breathes out hard, squaring his shoulders, reaching for both my hands now. “But I really like being wanted.” He dips his head then raises it with a sheepish expression. “I think that’s why I like your jealous side.”

A small laugh falls from my lips as I lace my fingers through his. “Want to hear a secret?”

Grant smiles. “I do.”

“I’ve never been the jealous type. It’s not my nature. But there’s just something about you. Always has been,” I say, shaking my head in amazement over this man and what he does to me. “I felt it that first night at The Lazy Hammock, and it never stopped.” I emphasize every important word that comes next. “I want you, Grant Blackwood. And it’s never been just physical. I want you all to myself. I want you immeasurably more than I’ve ever wanted anything. More than baseball. I want you so much the wanting is part of my fucking soul.”

His lips twitch in a gentle grin. “Do you think it’s crazy that I need that? That kind of intensity?”

I shake my head. “No. It’s not crazy.” My hand slides up his arm, travels to his sternum, my palm resting on top of his heart. “It’s what you need. And it’s what I want to give you.”

Grant covers my hand with his, then closes his eyes and sighs contentedly. I shift positions, stretching alongside him, grateful his couch is big and cushy. I wrap my arms around him, feeling that calm rightness once again.

I breathe him in, and my heart feels like it’s expanding with each breath like it’s unsure how to fit in my rib cage. But I’ll make room for it, this new heart size. Pretty sure it’s never returning to how it was.

We stay like that, quiet and peaceful, as the sounds of the city wrap around Grant’s home—cars honking in the distance, music playing from the park, a trolley rolling along somewhere.

From even farther away, I imagine I can hear the Pacific Ocean crashing against the sand, that kind of nighttime whoosh the waves make as they tug on the shore.

Steady. Constant.

The sun and the moon.

I run my hand down his arm, savoring the moment.

The doorbell buzzes, and a second later Grant’s stomach growls again.