Enchiladas & Other Drugs
Chapter eight
Grant
Iam a glutton for punishment. A foolish, idiotic man.
When I found out Eslin wasn’t backing down from the job—that she was, in fact, starting right after the Fourth of July—I might’ve insisted we offer her one of the corporate apartments.
In my building.
It’s a small detail I conveniently left out when I updated Xavier and Will. No need to invite scrutiny where there doesn’t need to be any.
Because it doesn’t matter. I won’t touch her. I won’t make a move. I just wanted her...close. Even knowing full well I can’t have her.
What can I say? I’m an addict.
Eslin is my drug.
I’m nearly two months sober now. Two months into what I’ve dubbed my six-month sentence of good behavior. I can’t afford to screw it up. I can’t afford to be selfish, not when my daughter is depending on me.
My driver pulls onto Peachtree, weaving through mid-morning traffic on the way to my next meeting.
I pop open my laptop to knock out a few emails.
Just as I start typing, a text notification flashes on the corner of the screen.
I click the message app on my computer so I don’t have to dig my phone out of my pocket.
Marlow: I’m thinking enchiladas for Sunday dinner. Thoughts?
Me: I’m thinking delicious, but glad I sleep alone.
A second later, her reply comes through—a string of laughing emojis.
I type back: Can’t wait to see you.
She’s been killing it lately. Grinding every day, learning everything she can about this team and the sport. I’ve basically been putting her through my version of bootcamp—making sure she knows the game, the players, the business side, all of it.
If I’m honest, it’s probably the prep I should’ve done before I signed up to take over this mess in the first place. If I had, maybe I would’ve made a different choice.
I lean back in the seat, laptop still open but my attention drifting.
I’m not happy I sleep alone, but that’s one of the new lies I tell myself. The one I sell to Marlow, too. That this time alone, my good behavior sentence, is good for me. Healing. Healthy.
But the truth is, all it’s done is remind me how much I miss my wife.
Maddy.
Not just her—though I’ll miss her for the rest of my life. It’s everything we shared. The companionship. The laughter. The way she got my jokes before I even finished them. Movie nights. Lazy days on the boat. All the things we said we’d do more of once Marlow was off to college.
I miss it all.
And not only do I not get Maddy...I don’t get Eslin either.
So I do the only thing I can…I watch. I wait. I dream.
A man can dream can’t he?
***
The week flies by faster than I expect, and somehow, it’s already Sunday.
Marlow’s in my kitchen, sleeves rolled up, dark hair piled high on her head as she preps dinner—enchiladas, her new specialty. I’m leaning against the island, drink in hand, watching her with a small smile.
“You look just like your mother, you know that?”
She pauses mid-chop, a pile of fresh cilantro under her knife. She smiles softly. “So, I’m told.”
Her mother was a storm—half Sicilian, half Italian, a force you never saw coming until it was too late. And Marlow? She’s cut from the very same lightning.
“How’ve Xavier and Will been treating you? They still playing fair?”
I’ve had her shadowing just about everyone in the front office—publicists, the sponsorship team, even squeezing into meetings with Will and Xavier.
Total trial by fire. But that’s the point.
If she’s going to thrive in this world, she’s got to see it from all angles.
No sugarcoating. No surprises. And I’ve made damn sure she’s going in with her eyes wide open.
She tilts her head, thinking it over. “Hmm... Xavier’s knowledgeable but tougher than you with his expectations. Will’s letting me tell him what I need to learn from him. Two very different leadership styles, but I appreciate both.”
I take a slow sip of my drink. “But you’ll tell me if they’re too hard on you?”
She exhales dramatically. “No, Daddy. Because I’m a grown-up who handles my own problems. Like you taught me.”
“By slashing a fucker’s tires if they hurt you?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Or by having a conversation?”
“Fine,” I mutter. “But I will murder for you.”
“I know, Daddy.”
“Speaking of murder. The guys on the team being respectful?”
She groans. “Oh my God, enough! Let’s talk about you. How’s your dating life going? Met any quality women lately?”
She set me up a few weeks ago on some popular dating app—Caché Elite—an exclusive thing for executives and professionals.
My profile’s there, face blurred, bio carefully worded.
I’ve got a pile of matches, but none that hold my attention.
I only checked in the first place to see if Eslin had a profile.
She doesn’t.
I shrug. “I’m more focused on getting you up to speed than speed dating, munchkin.”
She rolls her eyes. “Stop calling me that. I’m twenty-eight.”
“Nope. It’s my right as your father. Nicknames are forever.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re my favorite.”
Dinner is incredible. She serves up the enchiladas hot out of the oven, perfectly sauced with melty cheese, sides of spiced black beans and cilantro-lime rice.
The tortillas are crisp on the edges but soft inside, packed with slow-cooked chicken and roasted green chilies.
I make a mental note to ask her to cook this again next week.
Halfway through the meal, she narrows her eyes at me over her glass of wine.
“You know,” she says slowly, “you really should get back out there. You can’t still be hung up on that woman from Vegas.”
My stomach knots, my fork pausing mid-air.
I mask it with a quick smirk, take another bite, stalling just long enough to pull it together.
Because the truth? Of course I’m still hung up on her. On that night. On everything about her.
But I can’t say that. I won’t. Not when Marlow’s orbit is so close to Eslin’s now. A few loose words and she could be one step from figuring it out.
So I wave her off, casual. “I’m just busy right now. Plenty of time for dating later.”
She studies me for a second, suspicious. But finally lets it go, returning to her plate.
I exhale, quiet, the weight of the unspoken truth settling heavier in my chest.
If she knew...if Marlow knew who Eslin really was to me—what she means to me—everything would unravel.
She’d never trust me again.
She wouldn’t look at me the same way.
And I’m not sure I could stand to lose that when I’ve lost so much already.