Sweater Weather & Soccer Daddy #2
I set my glass down, pulse still hammering beneath my skin, and force my brain to pivot before my face gives me away.
“So. About Declan, currently known as husband,” I joke, glancing around to make sure Grant’s still out of earshot.
He is.
Marlow freezes. Then she exhales, long and worn out.
“Yeah. That.”
I lean against the counter, elbow propped, eyes on her. “You don’t have to go there if you don’t want to.”
“No, it’s fine. It’s just complicated. He’s sexy as hell, obviously. Accent for days. More tattoos than should be legal. But he’s also intense. And something in me…no, everything in me…is screaming I don’t need that kind of intensity in my life right now.”
“And how are things going with the divorce?”
I ask it casually, like a good friend would—like I haven’t already heard every messy, melodramatic detail in weekly therapy sessions with her soon-to-be ex.
Marlow hasn’t had the time to vent, and I’ve kept my mouth shut like I’m supposed to.
But still, I’m dying to know if her side of the story sounds anything like his.
She lets out a dry laugh. “Impossible. He’s pulling the most ridiculous stunts. My lawyers are bleeding me dry over paperwork that should’ve taken a week, tops. But Declan’s acting like I burned down his entire world.”
“His feelings are hurt,” I say quietly, without thinking.
She blinks, takes another long sip of her wine. “I don’t get it. We knew each other for twenty-four hours.”
“Sometimes,” I say, eyes glued to the bottom of my glass, “that’s all it takes.”
The room stills for half a second before Marlow tilts her head. “Sounds like you know something about that?”
And right on cue, I hear his voice from behind us.
“Know something about what?” Grant asks, stepping into view with his wine glass and that maddening calm of his.
“Oh, nothing,” Marlow says too quickly, her voice a little too bright.
“We were just talking about adapting to things we didn’t think we could handle,” I say smoothly, keeping my eyes on Grant like it’s a game of chicken I’ve already decided to lose.
He picks up the wine bottle, and as he pours, his gaze doesn’t waver. Not once. It's dark and unreadable, but I feel every unspoken word behind it like heat licking up my spine.
Damn you, Holly. She was right.
“I see,” he says.
My stomach tightens. I should feel called out. Exposed. Maybe even embarrassed. But all I feel is the unbearable tension strung between us, pulled taut and humming.
Marlow keeps stirring her sauce, blissfully unaware she’s playing third wheel in a scene that’s about three seconds from combusting.
“Thanks for agreeing to dinner tonight,” Grant says finally, setting the bottle down. “It’s been a long time since Marlow’s let someone invade our time.”
That lands heavier than I expect. It nudges something inside me—soft and a little raw.
“Guess that makes me a friend of the family,” I reply, hoping my voice doesn’t give anything away.
His jaw ticks. His blue eyes go a shade darker.
“Friends, huh?”
The word sounds like a threat on his tongue.
I lift my glass and meet his stare. “To becoming friends when we didn’t think it was possible.”
Marlow turns just in time, grabbing her glass with a flourish. “I always knew it was possible for us to be friends, Eslin. Apparently all it took was a damn good plate of oxtails!”
We clink glasses, the sound light and casual—completely at odds with the tension wrapped around my chest.
“Don’t forget to make eye contact,” Marlow says with a grin.
“Not to worry,” Grant murmurs, his eyes finally leaving mine just long enough to clink glasses with her.
But not before he burns me alive with one last look.
Dearly beloved,
We are gathered here to mourn my panties.
They have drowned.
***
Dinner is awkward, but the conversation flows well enough.
Like we all agreed—silently and without eye contact—to just act normal.
Grant asks me the kind of questions you’d expect on a first date.
Hobbies. Favorite books. What kind of music I like.
As if he didn’t already hear the answers when we walked all night under the Vegas lights.
I pretend it’s the first time I’m saying them. Smile just right. Keep my tone breezy. Like none of it means anything.
“Dinner is spectacular, Marlow. I’ve never had eggplant parmesan before,” I say, setting down my fork.
“Thanks so much! It’s one of my favorite dishes to make,” she beams.
I shake my head. “She’s a boss and she cooks. Who raised you, woman?”
Grant clears his throat, raising his hand. “Guilty.”
I blush and sip my wine. “You should be proud.”
He looks at Marlow like the sun set and rose with her. “Every day.”
Marlow groans, dramatic. “Okay, enough of that! Who wants dessert?”
“I’ll take some!” I say quickly.
“Daddy made his famous peach cobbler!” she announces proudly, running off to the kitchen.
“Daddy?” I glance at Grant, eyebrows raised, and we both lose it—snickering at the accidental nickname. But I don’t miss the way he bites his bottom lip when I say it. Like he’s thinking about things we definitely shouldn’t be thinking about with his daughter in the next room.
“I mean, you? You made peach cobbler?” I ask, trying to steer my brain back to safer grounds.
He nods, very proud of himself. “From scratch.”
I laugh. “I don’t believe it. How did you learn to make peach cobbler?”
He raises a brow. “Why are you asking like that?” He leans in, “is it because I’m white?”
I gasp then laugh. “It is absolutely because you’re white! Now spill! Who taught you to make peach cobbler from scratch?”
He laughs, then shrugs. “When you’re a single dad, you’d be surprised how many women offer to cook for you, take over your life.
I had nannies to help with the heavier lifting, but I figured I’d get more out of learning some of the other things myself.
Cooking. Doing Low’s hair. Stuff that actually matters. ”
“I see,” I say, biting back a reaction that’s equal parts impressed and aroused.
It’s not fair. Nothing about this is fair.
Marlow proudly brings in a still-warm pan of peach cobbler and a tub of whipped topping, but halfway to the table, she pauses. Her face goes a little gray.
“Marlow? You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, honey. You don’t look so good,” Grant says, standing.
And then it happens.
A sound. A very small, but very undeniable sound.
She freezes. One hand over her mouth, the other over her stomach. “Oh God.”
Grant’s eyes go wide. “Honey?”
I lean in, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You wanna lie down?”
Another fart. This one slightly more confident.
“Umm. Uhh. I’ll be back,” she says, and darts down the hallway.
The second she’s out of sight, it’s like the dam breaks.
We both burst into laughter. Full-bodied, can’t-breathe, wipe-your-eyes kind of laughter.
It only takes a few more seconds before the laughter fades into silence—and the realization settles in like smoke.
We’ve been left alone.
Grant
Denim has never made my dick hard.
Until tonight.
This woman walked into my home like seduction wrapped in soft blue fabric, and suddenly I’m ruined. This dress. A barely-there, button-down jean dress that clings to her like it was sewn onto her skin. Every curve, every sway of her hips, it's all there, unapologetically on display.
Why does she have to be so damn beautiful?
It’s torture. The kind you feel in your teeth, in your fists, in your zipper.
It’s wrecking me. Having her here, sitting across from me like we haven’t already crossed so many lines that shouldn’t be crossed.
Like we haven’t both tasted something real—something passionate enough to ruin us for anything less.
And now we’re expected to pretend? To smile, make small talk, act like we’re nothing more than polite dinner guests over eggplant parmesan and peach cobbler?
But what was I supposed to do? Tell Marlow, Eslin couldn’t come over because I’m afraid of what might happen if we’re left alone?
That her laugh gets under my skin? That her voice rewires my entire brain?
That I can’t stop replaying that night in Vegas—wishing I’d stopped holding back, pushed her up against the wall, and fucked her senseless right there, right then, until the moment she whispered, I do?
Of course not. I couldn’t say that.
It’s all so maddening. The way she laughs too loud at my daughter’s jokes. The way her lips linger on the rim of her wine glass. The way her eyes keep flicking to me like she’s trying not to look.
The laugh we just shared still lingers in the air. It feels like foreplay. Everything with her does.
“Let me get the table cleaned up while we wait for Low,” Eslin says suddenly. And I know the exact second she decides to throw herself into cleaning.
When silence starts to press too heavy between us, when we both realize Marlow’s absence leaves no buffer to our need.
She starts stacking dishes like it’s a timed competition, avoiding my eyes like they’re dangerous. Which, fair. They are.
“I’ll help,” I offer.
She shakes her head, fast. “No, I’ve got it. Marlow made this great meal. You made dessert. It’s the least I can do.”
She’s already halfway to the kitchen before I can say anything else.
But I follow her. I can’t help it. Watching her move, nervous and flustered, doing everything she can not to acknowledge the static between us, feels like a challenge.
I lean against the doorframe as she puts the dishes in the sink, rinses, stacks, rinses again.
She’s all tight shoulders and forced focus.
Then it happens.
She turns too fast, her heel catching on the edge of the rug. I see the moment her balance slips, but I don’t reach her in time.
The crash of glass shatters through the kitchen.
Women really do keep falling around me.
“Uggh!” she mutters, crouching down.
“I’ve got it,” I say, already grabbing the broom and dustpan from the corner. “Just stay back.”