Hot, Bothered & Bitchy #3
Growing up the way I did—always the new kid, always the temporary one—I learned the hard way not to get too comfortable.
I used to get attached fast. To the people, the homes, the smell of certain kitchens.
I’d fall in love with the idea of being part of something permanent before I even knew if I was wanted there.
And when I wasn’t chosen or when the foster mother found out she was pregnant and suddenly didn’t want the extra weight of a teenager, or when a family decided I was “too old to mold,” I got sent away. Again.
So yeah, I built rules. Not just for others, but for me. Rules like: don’t get attached to someone who doesn’t make it safe to do so. Don’t say I love you first. Don’t hope for more than what’s been offered.
They’re survival rules. And they’ve served me well.
But I don’t say any of that out loud. It’s not first-date material. Hell, it’s barely third-date material. So I smile, keep the edge off my voice, and leave all the messy, haunted parts where they belong. Hidden. Contained. Mine.
“Okay, fine!” I laugh. “I definitely have rules.”
“See! I knew it! Let’s hear them.”
“I don’t kiss on the first date. I don’t believe in definitions when it comes to relationships. I believe in checking in consistently to make sure both people are still in it. That we both still want the same things.”
“I see,” he says, impressed.
“And I don’t think sex defines a relationship. Intimacy does.”
Those words fly out before I can stop them.
Unpolished. Me. And I don’t usually open up like this—especially not to someone who technically qualifies as a colleague.
But maybe I needed to say it aloud. Maybe I needed to feel like someone was listening.
Or maybe I just hoped it would be too much and he’d decide this wasn’t worth it.
But he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t falter.
And that scares me a little.
Everything slows. The music, the crowd, the lights—muted like they’re underwater.
Except my pulse.
Coco Jones starts singing Here We Go, and the second the lyrics drift through the speakers, I feel it in my chest.
Like the universe implanted a cruel reminder of what I’m trying to forget.
I look up and there he is.
Grant.
Standing just off the edge of the dance floor, a lowball glass in his hand, untouched. His eyes locked on me. On us.
He’s not angry. Not scowling. But tortured.
His jaw clenched. His brow tight. His grip on the glass so rigid I’m surprised it hasn’t shattered.
Darren’s hand tightens at the small of my back and I feel it. That sharp, unmistakable burn. That low ache that starts in my gut and spreads like wildfire through my ribs. It’s instant. Intimate. Unforgiving.
My body’s still dancing with Darren Jones, but my soul’s already been ripped from the moment and placed in Grant’s hands.
The lyrics hit again. Soon as I finally meet someone that I like…Here we go.
It’s a cruel echo.
Because I do like Jones. I really do. But the second Grant came into view, the second his eyes touched me, it didn’t matter anymore.
My breath goes shallow. My steps falter. I try to ground myself, focus on the man holding me, moving with me. But my heart’s off rhythm, matching only one frequency in the room.
His.
The moment the music fades, so does the little bit of calm I was clinging to.
Coach Jones and I step off the dance floor, and before I can fully catch my breath, Tatum slides up beside me like she’s rescuing a cat from a burning building.
“The banquet area’s ready, and dinner service is about to start,” she says, low. Then she leans in closer, eyes apologetic. “And I’m sorry in advance for the seating arrangement.”
My stomach tightens. “What does that mean?”
Before she can answer, Darren steps in, still smiling from our dance. “Everything okay?”
I glance toward the edge of the dance floor, instinctively searching for Grant—but he’s gone. Like a ghost that only I could see. A haunting I’m not sure I’m ready to give up.
“No. I mean…yeah.” I force a smile. “Just…ready to eat?”
“Starving,” Darren says, and the three of us make our way toward the banquet area.
I can’t help it. I keep looking. Scanning every corner, every dimly lit lounge space. No Grant.
The banquet setup is modern opulence. Long velvet-draped tables stretched across the room, framed by sleek leather dining chairs.
Low lighting glows from gold-trimmed sconces.
Instead of traditional round tables, there are lounge-style groupings—black leather sofas and marble cocktail tables mixed in with dining spots.
It’s like the high-end Supper Club met a luxury sports lounge, and they had a perfect, moody baby.
We make it to our assigned table, and that’s when I see it.
Two name cards. My name nestled between Grant Mills on one side, and Coach Darren Jones on the other.
My entire body goes still.
Tatum winces as she slides into a seat across from me. “I told you I was sorry,” she whispers.
Darren holds out my chair like the gentleman he is, and I sit. Slowly. Dreading the burn I know is coming the moment Grant walks up and claims the seat on my other side.
He doesn’t make me wait long. I feel him first. That quiet gravity pulling at my skin.
And then he’s there. Sitting beside me.
Close enough to feel. Close enough to touch.