Date Nights & Detours
Chapter thirty-eight
Grant
Malina Matthews is even more polished in person than she was in my memory, which is saying something. Perfect posture, perfect manicure, and a smile that could probably sell bottled water to a drowning man.
For most men in my world, looking for arm candy that will never disappoint, she’s perfect.
We’ve crossed paths more than a few times over the years through industry fundraisers, charity galas, events where everyone knows everyone’s business before the dessert course.
And this woman always had an audience surrounding her.
Malina runs a sprawling media empire, a portfolio of specialty magazines that somehow manages to cater to wildly different audiences—cooking, solo travel, tech. She’s built a reputation for spotting market gaps before anyone else even realizes they exist.
Once, years back, she’d asked for my advice on a company she was looking to acquire.
I spent a late afternoon combing through their financial data with her, pointing out what wasn’t on the surface—where they were bleeding money, why their numbers didn’t match their story, and how she could leverage that weakness in a sale.
She took my suggestions, closed the deal, and sent me a thank-you bottle of twenty-year-old Scotch.
Outside of that, I’ve never really thought of her as anything more than a polished, strategic acquaintance. One I happened to respect for her brains as much as her beauty.
Which is why, when Marlow mentioned her as a potential date, I was intrigued.
Not sold. Just curious. I couldn’t help but wonder what exactly my daughter was playing at.
Sure, on paper Malina and I looked compatible.
Both successful, connected, seasoned enough to know what we want.
But the truth is, we couldn’t be more different.
Malina is all sleek lines and calculated charm.
A woman who thrives in boardrooms, on red carpets, and in glossy magazine spreads.
Me? These days I’m more drawn to wild, fun, carefree energy that makes you forget the time and your better judgment.
Even if that side of them only comes out when no one’s looking.
I take another look at Malina. Really look. I can admire her. Respect her. Even enjoy her company. But no matter how much I like the idea of her, she could never be the reason I haven’t dated anyone else in months.
She could never be Eslin.
We’re barely into our first drink when it happens.
A low, traitorous rumble in my stomach.
Malina reaches across the table, her manicured hand resting lightly on mine while I pretend to study the menu. “I’m really glad you agreed to come out tonight. Our secretaries were getting sick of trying to coordinate our schedules.”
I grin, though sweat is beading at my hairline. “Ha! Yeah. Sorry it’s taken so long. Just busy,” I manage. Because at this moment, I’m actually too busy focusing on the small war breaking out in my gut to come up with anything clever.
I shift in my seat, praying she didn’t hear that ominous gurgle over the low hum of the restaurant.
The waitress appears just as Malina changes the subject to the one topic she’s clearly most passionate about—herself.
“Can I get you two started with some appetizers?”
“Uh, no—” I start, but Malina steamrolls right over me.
“Actually, I’m a bit famished.”
Well, shit. Please don’t let her order something that takes longer than five minutes to hit the table. I’m not sure how much time my digestive system has left on the clock.
“I’ll have the duck nachos, please,” she says, smiling as she hands the menu over.
“Coming right up!” the waitress chirps before heading off.
Malina is full of conversation this evening. “I simply can’t believe they expected us to pay full price after the CEO was caught with his hand down his assistant’s pants, plummeting their stock prices!”
She’s talking about her latest media acquisition, her words crisp and precise. I nod along like I’m actually processing any of it, but then—another rumble. Louder this time.
Jesus.
If that noise had come from the table instead of me, I’d be reaching for the salt to sprinkle on it.
I take another sip of water, trying to drown the problem before it becomes one. Bad idea. My gut twists like it’s wringing out a towel.
“Are you alright?” she asks, tilting her head.
“Fine,” I manage, smiling in a way that feels… unstable. Not charming, not suave—more like a man who just heard the Jaws theme playing in his intestines. “Just…uh…excuse me.”
I stand up slowly, trying to maintain dignity, but my pace to the bathroom says four-alarm emergency. It’s the kind of walk you do when you’re not sure if running will make things better or much, much worse.
Once inside, I make it into the stall just in time to avoid becoming a headline on one of Malina’s own gossip sites. The next few minutes are…well, let’s just say they’re not fit for polite conversation. Not fit for impolite conversation either, honestly.
I text my assistant from the bathroom: Tell Malina I had a work emergency. Apologize. Tell her I’ll call later.
By the time I finally step out, the table where Malina had been sitting is empty. She’s gone and I’m genuinely grateful. Not just because she didn’t see me at my most vulnerable. But because, after only a few minutes of conversation, I already knew she’d never light my fire.
She’s beautiful, sure. ‘Engineered in a lab,’ beautiful. But even with all that effortless beauty, there’s nothing in her that sparks anything in me. If anything, the disaster in my stomach feels like divine intervention.
***
I make it home an hour later, ten pounds lighter, ten times angrier, and wondering if my digestive system will ever trust me again.
I’m barely through the lobby when Eslin steps out of the building gym, hair pulled back, cheeks flushed from a workout, looking irritatingly pleased with herself. And sexy as hell.
“How was your date this evening?” she asks, smirking.
I stop. Stare. Narrow my eyes, mentally rewinding the night like a crime scene investigator. The last person to see my stomach alive and thriving was Eslin, standing in the living room with that innocent smile she uses when she’s about to be anything but.
The thought hits me. No—she wouldn’t. Especially if she doesn’t want me. Especially if she’s still dating that pompous ass with the perfect white teeth, Coach Jones.
“What,” I say slowly, my voice flat with suspicion, “did you put in my drink?”
She blinks at me, all faux innocence. “Why, Grant, whatever do you mean?”
My stomach growls in answer.
I glare harder. “Eslin, why would you do that?”
She doesn’t answer. She just turns on her heel toward the elevator. The elevator that doesn’t even go to my floor, but I follow her anyway, my pulse hammering.
“Eslin!” I whisper-yell through gritted teeth, trying not to sound like the old man chasing the pretty young thing through the lobby. “Eslin, answer me!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Grant!”
The doors slide open and three people shuffle out before we step inside. The second the doors close, it’s just us—too much air and not enough space.
I back her against the wall, my shadow swallowing hers. She stares up at me. She’s still glistening from her workout but the heat in her eyes isn’t from the gym.
“I’ve sat and watched you parade Darren Jones in front of me—”
“You have not sat and watched! You made sure, every single time I went out with him, that I had you on my mind.”
“But still…I let you go, Eslin.”
Her chin tilts in defiance. “Let me? As in permission?”
“No. As in your freedom, Es. I’m trying to give you that freedom. And you have to give me the same.”
The elevator dings for her floor, but I haven’t been this close to her in days and I’m not ready to let this moment die.
My hand finds her waist. My eyes drag over her—how the black sports bra and pants cling to every curve, the way her chest still rises and falls like she’s been running from something she can’t shake.
Maybe me.
“This is me,” she whispers, her head angling towards the elevator doors.
I pull her closer until my need is pressed against her, making it impossible for her not to feel exactly what she does to me every fucking time she’s near.
“Does he touch you? Have you let him touch you?”
Her breath hitches. “Why?”
“You know why.”
“Grant—”
“Does he make you want to forget me? Forget my touch?”
Her answer is barely a whisper, shaky and raw. “No.”
It’s not enough. I need it spelled out, carved into the air between us. “No, what? No, he doesn’t touch you…or no, he doesn’t make you want to forget me?”
Her gaze flickers down, then rises again, locking with mine. Those big, dark eyes—equal parts defiance and surrender—shake me like they always do. “All of it. No to all of it, Grant.”
She swallows, her voice softer now. “I promised.”
And that word…promised…lands in my chest like a match in dry grass. That night at the Halloween party immediately rushing to mind.
My hands find her neck, my forehead pressing to hers.
“I’m sorry for this.”
She closes her eyes. “Sorry for what?”
“All of it,” I whisper.
The elevator dings again. The doors open and close. But neither of us moves.
“I’m sorry for making you make that promise. For touching you like I owned you. For touching you like once would be enough. For making myself believe I could be near you and be fine.”
A tear escapes down her cheek and I kiss it, then lick it.
“Eslin? If you want me to do better at letting you go, say it now. I’ll go into hiding again. I’ll stay away. I’ll disappear if that’s what it takes for you not to get distracted by me.”
She opens her eyes, holding mine. “And what does not doing better look like?”
I move before I think, pulling her mouth to mine like I’ve been drowning and she’s air.
Her taste is heat and ache and punishment all at once. My tongue finds hers, and it’s not a kiss—it’s a yield. Succumb.
My chest aches with the force of it, and I swear a sound almost breaks free from me when she pulls away to look at her phone.
I didn’t even feel it vibrate but I catch the shift in her expression as she looks back up at me. “It’s Marlow. She needs me.”
Shit.
She presses the button to open the door. I force myself to step back.
Step aside.
“Grant, I’m sorry for tonight.”
Her voice is soft, shaky.
“I don’t even know what’s gotten into me. That’s the thing when it comes to you—I don’t know who I am right now. I don’t know what I need from you. I honestly don’t. I’m a mess of confusion and secrets, and every time I’m near you, I get reckless. Careless.”
My chest tightens, because she’s not wrong—I’ve seen it in her eyes, the way she comes apart the second we’re close. And still, hearing her say it out loud feels like a blow.
Her gaze flicks to mine then, sharp and vulnerable all at once. “So while every single part of me is screaming for you to come closer…to stay close…I think I need you to…try harder.”
One tear escapes before she can stop it.
“Please.”
I nod once, tight, and let the elevator close between us.
And then she’s gone again. Just as my stomach lets out a murderous rumble.