We round the corner, our breaths coming fast, T-shirts getting sweaty, and I shoot him a glance. “I think that’s fair to say.”
He is, and I’m having far too much fun, so I reach for the bottom of my T-shirt, whip it off, and toss it to the ground.
Grant blinks. He lets out a noise that sounds like ungh, then looks away, blows out a long stream of air.
“I’m listening to, um, a political thriller,” he says, delightfully awkward again.
“Does it have a title?”
His eyes drift down to my chest, before he rattles off the name of what sounds like a James Patterson book.
“Sounds fascinating. A real page-turner. Bet you can’t put it down.”
His eyes stay locked on me, roaming over my abs.
I shouldn’t savor his reaction so much.
But I do.
So far this morning, he’s been winning the Flirt Game, but this round goes to the shortstop.
“Some things are hard to look away from,” I say.
“I’ll say,” he murmurs.
He stares shamelessly.
Hungrily.
Making this my best morning workout in ages—and also my hardest.
9
Declan
The next morning, I stroll onto the track as the sun peeks over the horizon, pale pink streaks of dawn reaching across the sky. Grant is already there, stretching on the grass.
Good morning to me.
He’s bent over at the waist, feet planted wide apart as he twists to the right. Then he switches, twisting to the left.
He rises, shoves a hand through his thick hair, making it all messy.
Messier, I should say.
Mmm.
I’d like to mess it up.
I’ve never had a type when it comes to men, but I might now, and that type is six foot four and built from pure muscle. Guess I do like a rock-hard body. And athletes are just hot.
“Hey, man,” I say as I make for the track.
“Good morning,” he says, joining me. I break into a loose-limbed jog and Grant falls in alongside me.
“Oh yes, it is definitely good,” I say, not bothering to strip the flirt from my voice.
“I take it you enjoyed the view. Is that what makes it good?”
“I take it to mean all that preening you did was on purpose?”
“What? Me? You think I’d retaliate because you whipped off your shirt yesterday?”
“I do think you’d do that, because you did do that.”
He shrugs, wicked enjoyment on his handsome face. “Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it, Deck?”
I grin, enjoying the shortened name, the way he dishes out as well as he takes it. “Funny, but right now, I don’t have any problems with payback. Not at all.”
He laughs, his dark blond hair catching the sunlight, strands of it looking golden. His laugh fades, quickly, though, his voice dipping to a more serious note. He gestures to the gate in the fence around the field. “Did you know there’s a path over there that runs along the edge of the woods by the golf course?”
“Arizona has woods? This is news to me.”
“Who’s the wiseass now?” Grant shoots back.
“Like I said, payback. In any case, are you trying to lure me into the woods?”
He shakes his head, rejecting the idea vehemently. “No. No. No.”
I ease up, taking pity on his nerves. “I’m just messing with you, rookie.” Nodding toward the gate, I say, “Let’s hit it.”
“Yeah?” His tone pitches up.
“Yeah.” I arch a brow as we peel away from the track. “Are you still nervous around me?”
He pushes out a worried laugh. “No. I don’t know. Sometimes. I just don’t want you to think that I’m . . .”
“A gigantic flirt?” I supply.
Grant winces. “Yeah. That.”
That tugs on the part of me that can’t resist a soft heart. “We’re good. It’s all fun and games, right?”
His answer is instant. “Of course. And I didn’t want you to think I was disrespectful when I was, um, stretching.”
Yeah, this guy is such a mix of cocky and caring. The most enticing mix. “Nothing to worry about. We can shoot the shit and it’s cool, and you can stretch and show off your hot body and that’s cool too, since nothing is going to happen.”
“Right,” he says, with a crisp nod like he can’t acknowledge the compliment. Maybe I shouldn’t have given it to him.
“That was an impartial observation—the hot body remark,” I say, easing up. “Purely hypothetical.”
He looks my way. “My stretching was hypothetical too.”
“There you go again, wiseass.”
“Just following your lead. Since, you know, nothing is going to happen.”
I groan. Talking about not hooking up still makes me think about hooking up, so I sidestep the topic. “How was your time in Bakersfield?”
“Short but intense,” he answers, following the shift. “Way more intense than I thought it’d be. Know what I mean?”
“I do,” I say as we keep up a good clip.
“I knew it was my shot. I had to make it count. Was yours the same?”
“Definitely. Feeling the spotlight. Knowing you’re the top prospect. Wanting to prove your worth to the team.”