31. Sticks & Standoffs
Chapter thirty-one
Sticks & Standoffs
Eslin
Fall has to be one of my favorite times of the year. The smells, the colors, even the strange beauty of things dying away. Fall reminds you everything has a purpose, a place, and, maybe most importantly, an ending.
It’s a beautiful Sunday morning in Cinnamon Grove and it was begging me to slow down and breathe it in.
When I was younger, my old foster mother, Ms. Judy, would’ve had my butt in church by now, sitting in the second pew, wearing something stiff and respectable.
But today, I’m in leggings, sipping on a nutmeg latte from HollyDates, walking through quiet streets that feel like peace.
I’m just leaving the café, adjusting the strap on my top, when I spot him.
“Rocky!” I call out, crouching to greet the team’s beloved pup, who wags his whole body in response. I rub behind his ears, laughing when he tries to climb into my lap.
When I finally stand, I find myself staring into other familiar eyes. Blue ones.
Beautiful ass blue ones.
“Hey there, old friend,” I say, still smiling as I look up at him.
“Hey, old friend,” Grant replies, his voice rich and easy. “Just leaving the gym?” He gestures at my workout set, the matching olive green top and leggings I almost didn’t wear because they felt too sexy.
“Yeah. Then grabbed a drink from Holly,” I say, lifting my latte.
We stand there, smiling nervously. The tension is thick, humming just beneath the casual energy we’re pretending to have.
Neither of us moves. And I want to say something—ask him how he’s been, maybe suggest we sit down at Holly’s and split a scone like normal people with normal pasts.
But he beats me to it, stealing whatever words were just forming on my tongue.
“Hey, Eslin?”
“Yeah?” I answer too quickly. Too eagerly.
He hesitates just a second, then, “Care to take a walk with me and Rocky?”
I nod, the word “sure” barely out of my mouth before we fall into step, heading toward the dog park.
Like friends.
At the crosswalk, we stop under the blinking red light. The quiet stretches, and it suddenly feels like the moment is about to crack open.
“So, are you going to the team Halloween party?” I ask, watching the light instead of his face.
He shrugs. “Marlow’s trying to force me. Been trying to fix me up with someone.”
I cringe.
Grant and I have kept a respectful distance.
We’ve shared rooms, meetings, team events where we are always measured, always professional.
I’ve managed to dodge Sunday dinners at his place with Marlow more times than I can count, always having something come up last minute.
Grant and I simply agreed being that close again was a terrible idea. So we avoided it at all costs.
But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t twist something in my gut every time she casually mentions wanting to set him up with some eager socialite or freshly divorced soccer mom. The tight, nauseous feeling becoming a regular visitor every time she shows me a new dating profile on Caché Elite.
So I know I’m playing with fire even asking about his love life. But what else are friends supposed to talk about? The weather? The news? The way his sweatpants leave nothing to the imagination and have me clinging to the last threads of my sanity?
“Marlow set you up with anyone interesting so far?”
His pause says everything.
“You mean anyone that reminds me of you? Anyone that comes close to you? No, Eslin.”
I close my eyes for a second, trying to steady the thrum in my chest. Then I sigh and lie to myself.
“You have to stop that, Grant.”
He feigns ignorance. “What?”
“You know what you’re doing,” I say, cutting my eyes at him.
He lets out a sigh. “Fine. I’ll try,” he says with a grin, and we both know he’s lying.
Just like he probably knows I don’t want him to stop.
“To answer your question, no,” he continues. “I haven’t met anyone interesting.”
“But you have gone out with women?”
He glances down at me. “Now, you’re going to have to stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Acting like you’ll maim or murder any woman I so much as smile at.”
I laugh, too loud. “No! I’m just making light conversation with a friend.”
“Right. Just friends.” He nods slowly, knowingly. “Well, then yes, friend. I’ve gone out with a few women. At Marlow’s request.” It felt like he needed to add that part.
“Have you gone out with anyone more than once?”
He sighs again, deeper this time. “You really want to do this?”
I raise my hand like I’m in a support group for victims of self-inflicted heartbreak. “Emotional cutter. Party of one.”
A pause.
“Fine. One. That’s it. We went out twice but never hung out again.”
Something like hope dares to flicker in my chest. “Why not?”
“Because she apparently forgot she was in love with someone else. A woman.”
I stop walking and look up at him. “Come again?”
“At the end of our second date, which was fine, just nothing that would likely ever happen again, her former roommate showed up on her doorstep.”
“Oh my god. Like… during the goodnight kiss?”
“Just before,” he says. “And the woman tells her she’s been in love with her for five years and couldn’t watch her fall for someone other than her. The person who knows her so well, she memorized her sleep rhythm.”
I stare. “She said that? Her sleep rhythm?”
“Yep. Said I hadn’t memorized her breathing patterns well enough to be worthy of her woman’s love.”
“Wow.”
“Right?”
“Creepy. But… kinda sweet?”
“Okay, thank you. I thought I was the only one who thought that was a little creepy.”
I love that he’s a little like me.
We both laugh, real and full this time, the tension easing just enough.
We keep walking, just a few yards from the dog park now.
“What about you?”
“What about me?” I ask, like I don’t already know what he’s digging for.
He laughs under his breath. “Are you going to the team’s Halloween party?”
“I am, actually. Got the perfect costume and everything.”
He wipes a hand down the back of his neck.“You should be proud of me,” he says, voice dipping into something dark and rough.
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because about thirty wildly inappropriate things just crossed my mind, and I didn’t say a single one.”
I grin. “Good boy. Do you want—”
“See…” He says it like a warning.
“Sorry,” I add quickly, biting back a laugh.
He smirks. “So, tell me, Eslin Saunders. Will you carry a red rose that night? So I’ll know who you are?”
I should lie. Brush it off or change the subject. But I’ve never been good at softening the blow. So I just say it.
“I’m actually going with Jones.” I clear my throat. “Coach Jones.”
He stops. Dead in his tracks. And poor Rocky gives him a look like he is not having it, pulling hard toward the dog park in view.
“Eslin. Him?”
His voice is strained. Half heartbreak, half disbelief. There’s a thread of something else too. Possessive. Like he can’t quite believe I’d offer even a sliver of myself to someone who isn’t him.
And I hate it.
Hate the way it coils in my chest. Hate that it matters. Hate that after all this time he still matters.
I shrug, trying to look casual. “Why not him?”
“Don’t get me wrong. Darren’s a solid guy. Respectable. Steady. But he can’t be the guy.”
My stomach tightens, because if he wanted to stop me from going out with Coach Jones, all he’d have to do is say the word. “What are you trying to say?”
He hesitates. Looks at me, then away. “He just…Not him.”
We keep walking. Mostly because Rocky’s about to dislocate his shoulder if we don’t. But also because if we stand still too long, I might do something reckless.
Like agree with him.
Like fold and finally say I’ll wait for him.
We reach the dog park, and he crouches to unclip Rocky’s leash. The dog bolts forward, tail wagging like he hasn’t seen his friends in months.
“He’s been socialized pretty well for a dog who grew up with a SEAL team,” I say.
We both watch Rocky blend into a tangle of dogs, running and sniffing and playing like he’s never known anything else.
“Yeah,” he says, brushing his hands off as he stands. “He gets along great with the others at doggy daycare. And he seems really happy.”
There’s a beat of quiet before he speaks again.
“I’m sorry.” His voice is soft and careful. “I don’t have the right to ask about your dating life. And definitely not to weigh in on who you date.”
I glance at him, then away. “It’s fine. I nearly drowned on my own saliva when Marlow told me she was fixing you up with people,” I confess, with a dry laugh I don’t really mean.
He smirks, eyes on the dogs. “Coach Jones has definitely made me want to file for some internal personnel changes.”
“Good thing we’re professional and know how to exercise restraint, right?”
“Barely,” he mutters, under his breath.
“But I think this friendship thing we’ve been trying has been working out okay, don’t you?”
He turns to look at me, eyes sharp with meaning. “Only because I haven’t had you over for dinner again, yet.”
His voice is intentional and laced with everything that sentence could possibly mean.
I clear my throat, suddenly hyper-aware of the coffee in my hand. I take a sip, desperate for the distraction—anything to mask the fire that just shot down my spine.
Because now my brain is busy imagining that dinner. And not the kind with candles and silverware. The kind that ends with him eating me on his dining table. Or his kitchen island. Or whatever damn surface is closest.
I’m not picky.
“Sometimes I just want to let my intrusive thoughts win,” I say, watching the happy dogs run wild around the park, owners clueless and content.
Grant clears his throat. “What kind of intrusive thoughts are we talking about here? Because if it involves us finding the nearest hotel room, I promise—I won’t judge you.”
I laugh. “Not that. I mean, sometimes I just want to be that person. Yell the ‘T’ word in a place like this and let chaos unfold.”
He leans in, lowering his voice. “You mean...‘treat’?”
“Yes!” I say, trying not to burst into laughter. “One loud ‘treat!’ and it’s total mayhem.”
“That’s pure villain behavior,” he says, grinning now.
“Oh, come on. You’re telling me you’ve never wanted to pick the asshole option?”
He snorts. “Please. I’ve made a career out of picking the asshole option. I dismantle companies and sell them for parts.”
“So you’re not just an asshole—you’re the king of assholes.”
“Guess that makes me royalty,” he says, snatching my coffee and taking a sip like he owns it.
“Hey! That’s mine!”
“And it’s terrible,” he says, grimacing.
“You stole it. How are you complaining about something you stole?”
He shrugs. “Maybe I just wanted to taste you again.”
My heart skips. Heat climbs up my neck, and I look away before I do something stupid. Like suggest we head to his place. Or mine.
Rocky, and the Atlanta Strikers’ bad boy ways rubbing off on him, charges across the park and interrupts a game of fetch between a golden retriever and his flannel-wrapped owner. He snatches the stick mid-air and takes off in the opposite direction, tail high, full gallop.
“Rocky! No!” Grant yells.
We both crack up, watching mischief unfold in real time.
“That dog’s a menace,” I say through my laughter.
“He’s misunderstood,” Grant replies, grinning. “A little like his handler.”
I glance over, still smiling, then let the question escape before I can second-guess it. “What was your wife like?”
His face changes. Not closed off, but thoughtful. And then, somehow, soft.
“She was fire,” he says simply. “Italian. From Milan. Hated waiting. Loved being in control. Spoke with her hands. Cursed like a sailor but baked like someone’s nonna. Beautiful. Loud. Fiercely loyal. And she never let me off the hook for anything.”
I nod, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. Because without even saying it, I can hear what he’s really telling me. She was just like Marlow.
I’m actually enjoying getting to know more about Maddy when the first complaint rolls in.
“Hey! Control your dog!” a woman in a matching vest-and-dog set barks across the lawn.
“Rocky! Drop it!” Grant calls, but Rocky doesn’t even glance back. He’s prancing now, showing off his stolen stick like a trophy.
Another man joins in. “Get your mutt back on his leash before I call the authorities! This is an off-leash park and your dog is clearly not trained to handle this kind of interaction!”
“Hey! Watch who you’re calling a mutt!” Grant yells.
“Excuse me,” I say, loud enough for half the park to hear, “but if your dog’s that emotionally unstable over a stupid stick, maybe he should be playing with the little doggies!”
The man starts arguing back, the woman’s huffing, and now we’re being surrounded by grumbling dog owners glaring at Rocky like he’s the anti-Christ with four paws.
“I can’t believe this,” Grant mutters. “You people have got to lighten up!” He says, louder.
“You need to get your dog trained and keep a muzzle on your lady or don’t come to this park!”
Grant’s fists ball at his sides and I think I see multiple veins pop out the side of his neck. “Muzzle? You want me to pick you up so you can come say that to my face, little man?”
I look to Grant, eyes wide and full of mischief. “Do you want me to do the asshole thing?”
Grant doesn’t hesitate. He nods. “Do it. Do the asshole thing.”
I spin toward the angry circle and raise my voice like a battle cry.
“WHO WANTS A TREAT?!”
Chaos erupts.
Every dog within fifty feet loses their damn minds—tails wagging, leashes jerking, some full-on sprinting toward me, dragging owners behind them. It’s a stampede of fur and fury and confused joy.
“Leash him!” I shout, and Grant clips Rocky’s leash just in time.
As we make our escape—grinning like criminals—I take a final sip of my now-cold coffee and say, “God, I love fall.”