All In With Him (Men of Summer 3)

Lovers Spat!

That’s what the captions would say.

Or, more likely, Gay Lovers Spat!

I’m not going to give anyone the satisfaction of telling our story. Not when we aren’t seeing eye-to-eye.

Instead, I tug on his hand, testing to see if he’ll step closer to me. He does, closing the distance and moving into my space. He studies me curiously, trying to figure me out. But he says nothing.

I try to speak with my eyes, to let him know I won’t say anything more now, out on the street. He gives the subtlest nod, then presses his lips to my cheek in the softest kiss.

It reassures me for a few seconds, the way he knows that’s what I need. Tonight is rattling my too-good-to-be-true world, knocking it out of its honeymoon orbit.

“Let’s talk in the car,” he says.

A minute later, the Lyft arrives, and we get in the backseat.

“How you guys doing?” the bearded driver asks, then his eyes light up in the rearview mirror. “Number Eighteen! I’m a huge fan of the Dragons. The biggest!”

Declan turns on his media charm as the guy jerks the car into traffic. “That’s awesome, man. Happy to hear that.”

He shakes his head, bemused. “Can’t believe you’re in my car. Declan Steele. Star shortstop with the .321 batting average. My kid plays Little League. He looks up to you. Wants to be just like you.”

“That’s great,” Declan says warmly. “What position does your son play?”

“Shortstop, like you,” the man says. Then he tosses a glance my way in the mirror. “Sorry. But I’m a diehard Dragons fan all the way.”

“No worries. It’s all good,” I say, in my best chatting-with-the-fans voice.

I let Declan and the driver gab the whole way home as I slump against the back seat, wishing traffic would disappear and we could teleport to my house.

Whoa.

What the hell did my brain just say?

My house?

No, idiot. It’s our house.

I haven’t thought of it as only mine in months. Not since I asked him to move in. Not since he said yes to living together.

But the thought—my house—is like a vise, clutching me too tightly.

Nothing feels worse than that.

7

Declan

The second the door shuts, Grant spins around, fear in his eyes, grit in his voice. “What’s wrong? Just tell me. I can’t take it anymore. I know you didn’t want to be there. That you were having a shitty time. And that you were faking it for me,” he says, the words spilling out like a five-car pileup.

“Fuck,” I mutter as I stalk away from him. I head to the living room, sinking on the couch with my head in my hands.

“That’s not helping,” Grant says, following me.

But he doesn’t sit. He stands.

I raise my face, looking at Grant. His arms are crossed. His eyes are hurt. “I’m sorry, babe.”

A spark of relief flashes in his blue eyes but then vanishes. “Why are you sorry? What’s going on, Deck?”

I try to sort through the mess I’ve made of tonight. “It’s not you. I swear.”

A shaky breath passes his lips. “It’s not you, it’s me?” he repeats, incredulous. “Is that where we’re at? Is that how this works? You feeding me a breakup line? Are you breaking up with me?”

I gape at him. That’s the other side of the planet from what I’m thinking. “No. God, no. I didn’t mean it that way. Jesus . . . I’m just . . . I’m trying to figure out what to say.”

“Try harder,” he bites off. “Because you’re freaking me out.”

I can’t tiptoe around this anymore. I just have to rip off the Band-Aid. “I hate dancing. I hate clubs. I hate crowds like that.”

His lips part, his jaw coming unhinged. “That’s what you were in a funk about?”

“Yes. I feel stupid in places like that, when everyone is looking at me, and I don’t know what to do. It reminds me of how shitty I felt when I was younger and my dad would show up at my games . . . and you know.” I let out all the awful emotions and memories until they trickle off. “You know all of that.”

“I do,” Grant says softly. “But why didn’t you just tell me that?” He sounds wildly relieved, but hurt too.

My shoulders unknot momentarily. I’ve lifted a weight off them, but it’s not all the way gone. Dragging a hand across my forehead, I rise, take a steadying breath, and cross to where he stands. I stop when I’m a foot away, but I don’t touch him. Funny how we did nothing but touch at the club and I felt completely disconnected to him. Already I feel more connected in our home, and we haven’t touched once.

“Because you were looking forward to it so much,” I say heavily. “That’s why I didn’t say anything.”

“Sure, I wanted to go, but not to the point of making you miserable.”