Banquets & Blushes
Chapter thirty-six
Eslin
Ican’t believe he just did that.
Worse—I can’t believe what I let him do.
Every rational bone in my body was screaming no, and still, I sat there and took it. Let him. Let his hands wander like they belonged there, like I belonged to him. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want more.
I am a stupid woman.
Weak-willed.
A common whoremonger!
Uggh!
Grant Mills is off-limits in every imaginable way. My best friend’s father. A man nearly twice my age. A man with the kind of control that makes smart women forget their rules.
And yet here I am. Still craving the touch I should’ve pushed away. Still aching like I’m starving and he’s the only thing that’s ever fed me.
It’s like he’s built this secret garden around us—quiet, dark, and full of fruit I have no business touching. But the more I taste, the harder it is to stop going back for more.
We’re at the part of the evening where the party is winding down.
The lights are low, the crowd thinning. Tatum’s off to the side finishing up interviews with the press that showed up uninvited.
Marlow still hasn’t made an appearance, and part of me wonders if that was by design—like Grant and I were given one more moment we shouldn’t have had.
And even though he slipped out a half hour ago, I keep glancing around the room like I’ll find him in a dark corner, watching me. Like a ghost. My secret.
“Ready to go?” Coach Jones asks, his tone casual, unaware of the turmoil brewing beneath my skin.
I nod, smoothing my hands down the front of my jeans and grabbing my jacket. “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”
We walk in silence toward the exit, his hand gently guiding me through the remaining crowd. But just before we step out into the cool night air, he leans in
“Uh… Eslin? Your zipper’s down.”
I freeze, eyes wide. And suddenly I remember exactly why. My skin heats with a fresh wave of embarrassment, and I turn away, fumbling to fix myself as fast as humanly possible.
He chuckles. “Hell of a party, huh?”
I don’t even respond. I just laugh it off, nod once, and step into the night, praying the cool air will sober my thoughts—and that my body forgets the man I’ll never be allowed to want.
“Hell of a party, indeed!”
“You really do look cute, tonight.”
“Thanks,” I manage.
“You are different than I expected. Outside of work.”
“Oh yeah? How’d you think I would be?”
We pass a group of ladies in sexy costumes and clearly over the legal limit of alcohol.
He gestures towards one of the women in a skimpy angel costume. “Most women are excited to get dressed up and sexy for Halloween, but you wear the most covered up version of Janet Jackson anyone has ever seen for a costume.”
I shrug. “I’ve never been the kind of woman who has to flaunt it to feel it. Sexy isn’t about how much you show—it’s an attitude. A presence. Either you carry it, or you don’t.”
He lets out a sharp breath and I can tell he’s impressed by my bravado on the subject.
I had a foster mother named Karen who used to be a prostitute, but she turned her life around long before I ever showed up at her door. She was tough, honest, and unapologetically herself. And she used to tell me the realest things. Things no caseworker or guidance counselor ever dared to say.
“There’s more to being a woman than what’s between your legs,” she’d say. “Don’t let television or some fool with a smooth mouth convince you otherwise. Sex appeal doesn’t come from skin. It comes from self-respect. That’s where the real power is.”
For the two years I lived with her, Karen was less like a mother and more like the big sister I never had.
And I think, looking back, I learned more about being a woman in that small apartment with her than I have anywhere else since.
About sensuality. About strength. About owning my presence without apology.
The sidewalk is a blur of color and chaos—tiny witches and pint-sized superheroes darting between stoops, plastic pumpkins swinging from sugar-sticky fingers.
Parents trail behind in hoodies and costume accessories of their own, coffee cups in one hand, phones in the other.
There’s laughter, someone blasting “Thriller” from a speaker on their porch, and the warm glow of jack-o’-lanterns flickering in every direction.
It’s the kind of neighborhood scene I used to dream about. One I never quite belonged to. One I was always passing through.
Coach nudges his head toward the crowd. “You think you want a family some day?”
I let out an uncomfortable laugh. Most men don’t like my answer to this question. “Who me? No.” And I leave it at that, because no is a complete sentence. But because it’s Darren Jones, he doesn’t let it sit there.
“Bad childhood?”
I look at him. “Why would you assume that?”
“Because most women who don’t want kids usually want to cut off the possibility of something happening to a child they love, like what happened to them.”
He says it so matter of factly like he read a page straight from the book of me.
“Something like that.” I let out a sigh and decide to share a bit of myself with him.
“I grew up in foster care and saw how many children went unnoticed, unwanted and unloved. And I always said that if I ever decided to have children, I’d pick one of them.
A child that hates every birthday because it means they are one more year closer to aging out of a system that only chooses infants. Babies that can be molded.”
“Wow,” he says, and it’s not for show. It’s the kind of “wow” that carries weight. He grabs my hand and gives it a firm squeeze. “I love learning about you, Eslin Saunders.”
“Thank you for not taking pity on me,” I say quietly.
“Thank you for not hiding your truth with me. I respect that.”
We round the corner and the sound hits first—laughter, music, the unmistakable thump of bass spilling into the streets.
Holly’s is lit up like a scene from a movie.
Streamers hang from the awning, fog machines cloud the sidewalk, and people in everything from cheap wigs to couture-level costumes flow in and out of Holly’s like it’s the hottest spot in town.
Holly turns her place into party central for every major holiday, and Halloween is practically her Super Bowl.
Tatum is in the middle of a small crowd, sipping something pink and commanding attention like she was born to do it.
I catch a glimpse of Marlow with Declan at the far end of the patio, surrounded by a few other Strikers players, drinks in hand, all laughing like they’re in on a secret.
I want to charge over and ask her where the hell she’s been and why she didn’t come to the team party, but I know better than to start something in front of everyone. I’ll text her later.
“Looks like Holly’s hosting the after party,” Darren observes, nodding toward the crowd.
“Want to stop in?” I ask, suddenly not in a rush to head home and risk wandering up to Grant’s penthouse and offering myself to him.
“Sure. But before we do—” His voice dips, slower now. Serious. And I can already feel the shift coming.
“Yes?”
“There are a lot of people from work over there. And you know how the guys can be.”
I let out a short laugh. “Don’t I know it.”
“So, if you want this between us to just be a one-time thing, or if you’d rather keep it friendly, I’m okay with that. I just—look, I don’t want to be the guy catching heat from the team for falling into something that’s not even real.”
Is he really trying to define this after one date?
“Darren,” I say evenly. “We are friends. What we are beyond that is undecided. I don’t know you well enough yet to say what this is or what it could be. So if you’re asking me to spare your pride by keeping this quiet around the guys, fine. We’ll keep things professional until we figure it out.”
He nods, like it’s not exactly what he wanted to hear but it settles something inside him.
But I still see something else—the hesitation in his eyes, the flicker of disappointment that settles behind his easy smile.
It’s the moment he realizes I’m not the type to fall in line just because the vibe is good for one night.
I’m not a quick claim. Not some box to check off.
I don’t care how long I grew up wanting to be desired, I won’t settle.
I’m nothing to be taken off the market. Not without a damn good reason. And if there’s ever a time for Coach Jones to learn that, it’s now.
Also, our boss had his fingers inside me not more than an hour ago and I’m still trying to process my explosive orgasm.
“Well then, Eslin Saunders,” Darren says, flashing that polished smile and perfect white teeth. “I’d love to be your friend.”
His tone is light, but there’s something in his eyes that doesn’t match. A quiet challenge. Maybe even a warning.
I smile back. “Good. Let’s start there.”