PB Nightcaps
Chapter thirty-seven
Eslin
Holly’s smells like roasted espresso, sugar, and the faint tang of sass that follows its owner everywhere. I’m nursing a holiday coffee on a Sunday morning before a workout, watching the steam curl up like it’s trying to hypnotize me into not thinking about my crazy life.
It’s been a few weeks since Halloween, and I’ve gone on two more dates with Coach Jones.
He’s…nice. Cultured. Easy in a way most of the American men I’ve dated aren’t.
No games. No second-guessing. Honest. Intentional.
Almost as intentional as Grant is about making it painfully clear he hates that I’m dating him.
Grant’s been keeping tabs on me through Marlow, somehow finding out when my dates are, then coincidentally showing up on the sidewalk with Rocky every single time I’m about to leave.
Like he can’t help but plant himself in my path, reminding me exactly who he is and where he stands, even though he knows he can’t have me.
What he doesn’t realize is, he doesn’t have to do a damn thing to stay in my orbit. He’s been living there since the night we met.
“So, tell me all the things. All the drama.” Holly skips any pretense of small talk and jumps straight into what she’s become for me—a caffeine-dealing counselor, keeper of my secrets, and occasional bad influence.
I groan. “Everything is a mess. I hate my life.”
She leans in, eyes sparkling. “Tell me more.”
“Me and Marlow are getting closer—like little-sister close. Her father is practically stalking me now that he knows I’m dating the soccer coach, and did I tell you about Halloween when he—”
Holly throws up a hand. “Stop. Please don’t make me relive that story. I masturbated for a week after you told me the first time.”
“Noted,” I say with a smirk. “It was the sexiest, dirtiest thing I’ve ever experienced. And that’s the problem. I’m not this dirty woman who hides things from the people she cares about. I am not the therapist teetering on the edge of breaking client privilege because it’s all just too much.”
She cuts me off mid-rant. “Here. Taste this.”
She’s trying a new seasonal coffee flavor and I perk up because I love being her taste-test dummy. “What is it?”
Her smile could light a tree. “I’m thinking of calling it Holly’s PJs or P.O.J.”
I take a sip. “What does it stand for?”
“Peanut butter on Java. Oat milk whipped topping made with peanuts from local Black farmers.”
“I love it. Sweet, creamy, right amount of nut.”
“That’s what she said,” Holly deadpans, and we both crack up.
We’ve bonded over that’s what he said/she said jokes almost as much as coffee.
I squint at her cup. “But wouldn’t it be PBJ?”
She glares. “Heiffer! Did I say peanut butter and jelly?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Thank you. Now you’re gonna tell all your rich friends to come get a taste of my new drink, right?”
“Yes, Holly. I’ll make sure everyone gets a taste of your crazy invention–P.O.J.”
“Thank you. Now, back to you.”
I groan. “I know. What should I do?”
“Listen, while I did take nine hours of life coaching classes for my life coaching certification, I think you’re gonna need someone a little more qualified than me.
This,” she gestures to me like I’m a walking case file.
“Everything you’re dealing with, is heavy, mama.
You need to talk to someone. Someone more able to handle this than your local neighborhood coffee lady. ”
I laugh, then exhale, the sound more like acknowledgement than amusement. She’s right.
One of the first things you learn as a therapist is that you will need your own therapist. A safe place to unburden yourself. In all my years of practice, I’ve never actually had that. Never thought I needed it.
Most of my work has been coaching spoiled executives and counseling people whose biggest obstacle was getting out of their own way. But this job? Being the team’s therapist and performance coach? It’s an entirely different beast.
Beautiful boys pretending to be men, each carrying enough baggage to sink a ship, burying it all in the game until the whistle blows and they’re left with nothing but the weight of it again. It’s heartbreaking.
And to add insult to my already fragile professional ethics, I’ve gone and fallen in love with my best friend’s fine-ass father.
“You’re right,” I admit, my voice softer now. “I do need to talk to someone.”
I squint, lowering my head a little in mock shame. “So…it’s really a bad idea if I go over to his house for Sunday dinner with him and Marlow tonight, huh?”
Holly looks at me like I just spit P.O.J.
straight in her F.A.C.E. “Bitch, what have we been talking about this whole time? That man is too fine for you to be in the same zip code without supervision! Why would you walk straight into the line of fire like that? Marlow is your friend. Grant is off-limits. Your vagina is one bad choice away from turning into a four-alarm blaze. I beg you—do not go to that man’s house! ”
I sigh. “Too late. I’m making the cornbread.”
***
In the name of avoiding temptation—and by temptation, I mean Grant Mills in all his fine-ass, broad-shouldered, salt and pepper glory—I choose an outfit that practically screams safe. A black jogging suit and black-and-white sneakers. No heels. No cleavage. No risk.
I was told to dress down tonight, and when I warned Marlow that “dress down” for me usually means Timberlands or sneakers, she just shrugged and said I could come however I felt comfortable.
I love her for that. I love that every time I crack open the lid on my weird, shadowy self, she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t judge. She just meets me where I’m at and stays there.
By the time I’m seated at their massive dining table, the house smells like hot oil and lemon. Marlow is mid-story, animated, explaining how the fish we’re eating was caught earlier this morning.
“On Dad’s boat,” she says, proud and glowing. “We battered and fried it as soon as we got back.”
I glance at him. Grant grabs a piece of the cornbread I made, forearms flexing, completely unaware—or pretending to be—of the ache he triggers in me.
I remember in Vegas when he told me he and Maddy used to spend whole weekends out there on his boat. Sun. Water. Silence. Her beside him with a book. The memory presses against my ribs.
I keep my tone light. “Do you get out to the boat often these days?”
He lifts his water, measuring his words. “I’d like to, but…” A beat. “It’s not the same without Maddy, and it’s never as fun when it’s just me. So, I like to ensure I have good company with me.”
He smiles over at Marlow. Today’s company.
Do I want to know if he’s had other company on that boat? Other women? Yes. Do I want to risk ruining my friendship with Marlow to find out? Maybe. But instead, I wait. It’s not time.
“So, Eslin,” Marlow jumps in, redirecting. “How are things with Jones? He seems so smitten with you every time I ask him about you!”
I catch the way Grant swallows.
“Yes, Eslin,” he adds, smoothly. “How are things with Jones?”
Bastard.
I smile sweetly. “Great. Thanks. Anymore cornbread anyone?”
“I’m fine thanks. It was really good, by the way!” Eslin beams. Clueless.
My attempts to change the subject are useless.
“Oh, come on! Don’t be shy,” Grant teases from the far end, and I shoot him a murderous glare. “Is coach Darren Jones everything you ever dreamed of in a man?”
If he weren’t at the other end of this gigantic table, I’d knee him in the nuts.
“He is nice, respectful, kind—”
“Sounds delightful,” Grant mutters under his breath.
“Good in bed?” Marlow waggles her eyebrows.
And I see Grant’s wine slosh over the rim. Meanwhile, as Marlow keeps firing questions at me, not paying any attention to her filthy father, he’s dragging his tongue along the side of the glass, licking the wine that spilled.
Deliberate. Slow. Dirty.
“Can we change the subject, please?” I snap, heat crawling up my neck.
“So that’s a no? No good in bed?” Marlow presses.
“It’s a ‘let’s not talk about things like this in front of your father!’” I hiss.
Because I don’t want him knowing Darren and I haven’t even kissed.
I don’t want him sensing I’ll barely let another man touch me unless he can make me feel even a fraction of what Grant makes me feel just by looking at me.
I don’t want him knowing that, even though I swore I wouldn’t wait for him, some pathetic, stubborn part of me is doing exactly that.
She leans back, hands up in surrender. “You’re right. We’ll save it for tomorrow’s happy hour with the Stand-Ins.”
“Great idea.”
Grant just sits there with that look—smug-ass, fine-ass, bastard.
“What about you, Low?” Grant turns to Marlow. “You seeing anyone?”
Payback, bitch.
“Yeah, Low,” I add, grinning. “Anyone getting your attention these days? Any players trying to push up on you?”
Grant snaps. Protective. “I’d better not hear about any players trying anything. We’ve talked about this, Low. These men are trouble and—”
“I can’t afford trouble right now,” Marlow says, finishing her dad’s sentence.
I take a sip of my wine. “Right. Definitely can’t afford anything remotely close to trouble. Or tattoos or—”
She glares at me, pretend coughing, while flashing me a middle finger.
I stick out my tongue.
“Like I’ve said before, I am not focused on dating right now,” she says carefully.
“Oh yeah? What are you focused on?” I prod.
“Bitch,” she mouths, eyes wide.
“Yo daddy,” I mouth back.
“I am focused on my job. My responsibilities that keep mounting by the day.” She looks to her dad, sweet as pie.
“Speaking of which, since I’m taking over most of your responsibilities, I’m glad to see you finally accepted a date invitation from Malina Matthews later tonight!”
This time I spill my drink. And it’s not subtle or sexy. It’s on my black hoodie.
Grant grins. Obviously enjoying this.
I narrow my eyes. “A date. Tonight. With Malina Matthews?” I try for casual, but the edge in my voice could slice through the cornbread.
He leans back, clearly savoring the moment. “What about her?”
“Oh, I don’t know. How about how you two got together?” I twirl my fork, like it’s no big deal. Like I’m not already annoyed at the thought of her perfect little billionaire life brushing up against his.
Marlow answers for him. “I was at a team function, and she asked about Daddy. Said she’s always thought he was handsome and I offered to hook them up.”
Traitor.
“How nice of you! Thoughtful.” I say with a fake smile.
Malina Matthews. Billionaire heiress of Matthews Media. Perfect long, blonde hair, perfect wardrobe, perfect damn name. Honestly, it would never work. This family already has way too many people whose names start with M. It would be confusing on Christmas cards.
“Just…lovely,” I say, forcing a smile so tight it could crack a molar.
“It’s just a drink,” Grant says, and there’s a flicker in his tone. Like he’s trying to reassure me, maybe even himself. “I can’t keep saying no to Marlow every time she sets me up. She’ll think I’m holding out for someone special.”
His gaze catches mine, intentional. “Someone specific,” he adds.
“And we can’t have that,” I say—only to him, my voice low enough that it doesn’t carry.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The air between us feels heavier than it should, dense with all the things we keep shoving into the shadows in the name of oaths, honor, and respect.
We’re locked there, caught, like breaking eye contact might shatter whatever fragile control we have left.
And I can see it—clear as day—want and restraint warring in him, just as they are in me.
If we don’t look away, if we don’t break this, Marlow will notice. She’ll know.
So I force my body to move, my chair scraping lightly against the floor. “Before you go,” I say, pushing the tension back down where it belongs, “let me make everyone a nightcap. My treat.”
Grant leans back, one brow lifting in that slow, assessing way that makes my pulse skip. “One drink,” he says, the corner of his mouth curving. “What could it hurt?”
I flash a sweet, innocent smile. “Of course. Just one.”
While I’m in the kitchen mixing drinks, Grant disappears down the hall to change. I line up three glasses, adding a splash of whiskey here, a drizzle of honey there—just enough to make them look innocent.
Grant’s drink gets a little extra attention.
A generous pour of magnesium powder, stirred until it vanishes without a trace.
One of my foster mothers used to keep some with her at all times and I never understood why.
Now, I send up a silent thank you to the heavens for her wisdom because I keep magnesium capsules on me everywhere I go.
By the time I return to the living room with the tray of drinks balanced on my hands, he’s back.
And damn.
Black slacks. Black turtleneck. The kind of outfit that makes him look like every woman’s ideal book boyfriend and every man’s benchmark.
He’s clean-shaven, hair perfectly in place, smelling faintly of cedar and something darker.
He looks dreamy. Dangerous. And like someone who has no business taking Malina Matthews anywhere.
I set the drinks down on the coffee table, sliding his glass toward him with a smile so warm it could be framed as hospitality. “Here you go.”
He takes it without question, fingers brushing mine. I keep my expression pleasant, sipping my own drink to disguise the flicker of satisfaction curling my lips.
Because tonight, no matter how flawless Malina Matthews looks in whatever couture cocktail dress she’s probably poured herself into, she won’t be getting much of Grant Mills’ company.
Not when I’ve made sure he won’t survive the first drink without an urgent, very inconvenient trip to the bathroom.