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

“Hey,” I say, flashing back to Grant’s first season of pro ball and a convo in the bathroom of a pool hall. “Did you ever learn to cook?”

Laughing, he shakes his head. “Nope. I am the king of DoorDash. You’ve barely seen my amazing DoorDash skills. I know the takeout menu of every restaurant in the entire San Francisco metropolitan area.”

“Impressive,” I say as I flop down on my bed. “Do you want to learn to cook?”

“Maybe? I don’t know. I’m open to it, but I also love going out to eat. I’m kind of a social person.”

“I’ve noticed. And it’d be fun to go out to dinner with you.”

“Don’t forget breakfast and lunch.”

“I won’t. We’ll do all three.”

On that promising note, we talk for a little longer and say goodnight once we’re both under the covers.

I turn off the light, picture Grant doing the same on his side of the country, and wish we had a date for breakfast tomorrow.





There’s a package waiting for me a few days later, in the mail room of my apartment. The shipping label says Rafe Rodman, but I didn’t order anything. Upstairs, in private, I open the box. Arching a brow, I pull out a pair of black briefs. The underwear isn’t the source of my skepticism—it’s that they are covered with cartoon unicorns.



* * *



Declan: Why do you get to wear the snug, solid-color Rafe Rodmans that make me want to fuck you all night long, but I get to wear unicorns?





* * *



Grant: Is there some reason you think unicorns on your ass and cock will deter me from wanting to fuck you?





* * *



Declan: Fair point.





* * *



Grant: Also, you have a unicorn cock. So there.





* * *



Declan: Maybe I’ll wear these when I see you next month.





* * *



Grant: Is that supposed to be a threat? Because it sounds more like I’m winning.





The third gift arrives the next morning—a DoorDash delivery from my favorite bakery, consisting of a half-dozen everything bagels with organic peanut butter. A note in the bag reads: In case you’re wondering what was on my mind last night in the shower, I hope this makes EVERYTHING clear. -G

I’m grinning as I toast a bagel and tap out a reply.



* * *



Declan: In case you’re wondering, I love everything about you . . . every single thing.



* * *



But I don’t send that. I want to tell him in person that every day I fall more in love with him, and that I don’t ever plan to fall out.

Instead, I backspace and type something else that’s true.



* * *



Declan: In case you’re wondering, I can’t wait to see you. Can’t wait to do everything to you. With you. For you. I just can’t wait.



* * *



That feels clear enough. I hit send.





Emma stops by later that day on her way to the Met, where she’s been working. I waggle the bag of bakery treats. “As hard as I try, I can’t eat six bagels in one day. Well, it’s five, now, since I had one already.”

“And you know there is nothing worse than day-old bagels.” She shudders dramatically. “Luckily, I’m here to save the day. Toast one for me?”

“It’s important to have standards,” I say, then drop the bagel into the toaster.

“I want the works,” she says, and I snicker to myself because she’s not getting the full works for an everything bagel.

“Inside joke?” Emma asks.

“Yes, it is.”

She flashes an I knew it grin. “So, you guys have inside jokes, now, and send each other gifts?”

“We do,” I answer.

When the bagel is ready, she bites into it and rolls her eyes in gastronomic delight. Once she swallows, she fixes me with a no-nonsense stare. “Declan Steele, when a man like Grant Blackwood sends you bagels this good, shares insider jokes, and ships you gifts, you have to find a way to be with him.”

Those feel like words to live by.





One thing I’ve learned at therapy: shrinks will wait for you to find the answer.

Mine has an Oprah vibe, both in her looks and her demeanor. She’s patient, wise, and inviting.

When I walk into Carla’s homey, earth-toned office on West Seventy-Second Street on a Wednesday afternoon in May, I’m armed with questions.

I sink onto her couch and fire away. “Do you think I’m ready? Do you think I’ve been getting away with murder the last few months? Do you think I’ll slide into old habits?”

She smiles softly—sagely too—as she crosses her legs. “Would you like me to answer all three at once, or should we start at the top?”

“Fine. We can take it one at a time,” I say with a faux huff.

“Okay. Question one. Are you ready?” She leans forward, tilts her head, studies me. “Are you, Declan?”

I breathe deeply, looking inside for the answer. It feels just out of reach. “That’s what I want to know.”