Sweet Potatoes & Sneaky Links
Chapter forty-seven
Eslin
It’s the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and while the offices are shut down, the Strikers’ staff has been working around the clock to transform the banquet hall into something that feels like home.
With so many of the players far from their families, I told Tatum I wanted the space to feel like walking into a living room—warmth instead of polish.
And my girl definitely delivered. Baby pictures taped to the walls, framed family portraits propped on side tables, old quilts thrown over the backs of couches.
Not sterile. Not professional. Just…home.
Max arrives today, and since she despises peeling potatoes, I’m determined to have them done and ready to boil before she shows up.
I’m in my kitchen, at my apartment, standing barefoot at the counter in nothing but one of Grant’s crisp white button-ups, working through the sweet potatoes for the pies I promised to bring.
The bowl on the counter is already half full, the peeler gliding through the skins in smooth curls. It should feel ordinary, almost domestic. But nothing about being wrapped up in this man feels simple.
I don’t even hear him approach—just feel him. His chest pressing against my back, his hands sliding around my waist, pulling me flush against him.
“Grant,” I warn, trying to keep my voice sharp even as my breath gives me completely away. “I’m not going to get anything done if you keep messing with me.”
“I don’t care,” he murmurs, and his breath fans across my neck like fire.
I glance down just in time to see his fingers at the buttons of his own shirt—my shirt now—slipping them free one by one. By the time it’s fully open, his hands are sliding around me, cupping my breasts.
“Grant…”
“Shhh,” he hushes against my ear, one hand drifting lower, teasing until he finds that spot that makes my knees go weak. His fingers circle my clit, pressing, commanding. “I know I haven’t been the most gentle.”
I gasp, clinging to the counter. “Understatement of the decade,” I manage, but the words fall apart on a moan.
It’s been like this with him since the gala. We’ve made love in my apartment, in his penthouse, once nearly in the locker room before we came to our senses. And yet no matter how many times he takes me, he always finds a new way to unravel me. A new way to make it feel different. Better.
I guess experience really is the best teacher and it has certainly taught him well.
In one sudden, effortless motion, he scoops me up and carries me down the hall.
My arms fly around his shoulders, breath caught in my throat.
But instead of the bedroom, he stops halfway, pinning me against the wall.
One arm holds me in place, steady and strong, while the other fumbles at his zipper with desperate need.
It’s reckless. It’s wild. It’s us.
His mouth claims mine, kissing me senseless as he holds me there, my body caged by his strength and undone by his hunger. Still, before he gives me more of the pleasure he’s been pouring into me all week, his eyes soften, searching mine like he needs me to hear this.
“You know what I’m most grateful for today, Eslin?” His voice is low, reverent.
I can barely breathe. “What’s that?”
“That day you sat next to me in Vegas. Because I almost talked myself out of talking to you.”
I feel him at my entrance, hot and ready, pulsing like he hasn’t already been inside me over and over the night before.
“What changed your mind?” I whisper, smiling.
He kisses me again, and this one tastes like love. “Your eyes.”
Another kiss, deeper, as he pushes into me, and I wince against the sweet ache of soreness.
“Your smile.”
His grip tightens, his hands sliding down to hold my thighs, parting me, lifting me, making me his all over again.
“Your heart.”
His movements start slow, a rhythm that feels like worship. “I’m sorry I can’t get enough of you, Es. I’m sorry you’ve made a ravenous monster out of me. But I love being inside you.”
My arms cling tighter around his neck as he glides me up and down, filling me until I forget everything else.
Potatoes be damned.
I bury my face in his shoulder, biting down against the tide of pleasure as it rips through me. But even as my body trembles around him, a single tear slips free. Then another.
Because I love this man. At least, I think I do.
And that truth aches almost as much as the release. Because I can’t tell him. I can’t shout it out or whisper it against his skin. I can’t let the secret of us breathe in the open air, not when it could shatter everything else around us.
So I cry quietly against him—half from joy, half from fear—hating that I can feel this much for someone I can never fully claim.
Because Grant Mills is amazing. He is wonderful. And he is mine in every way that counts. He feels like home.
By the time we’re both spent, my body a trembling mess against his, I can barely stand upright. He kisses me once more before dragging me into the shower, turning the water hot.
For a few minutes, it’s heaven—his hands soapy, slick, sliding everywhere. But when he presses his grin against my neck and mutters something about going again, I all but shove him away.
“Threaten me with another erection, Mills, and you’ll have to tell my friend Max why she is stuck peeling sweet potatoes!”
He laughs, low and wicked, as I rinse off in record time and dart out, leaving him under the spray.
“Now, let me try peeling potatoes again before I get interrupted by my insatiable sneaky link,” I mutter to no one, tugging on a pair of leggings for armor as I return to the kitchen.
Clearly, my body is not safe with this man if I’m not wearing pants.
The potato peels curl into a pile at my feet, the bowl on the counter slowly filling with bright orange flesh. My hands keep moving, but my mind drifts, ears tuned to the faint rush of water still coming from down the hall. How everything about this feels so good.
And while it should feel ordinary. Simple. Nothing about him—about us—is simple.
I’m halfway through another sweet potato when the doorbell rings.
I freeze, staring at the door as if it’s going to tell me who is behind it. Then, wiping my hands on a towel, I force a smile onto my face and open it.
Maxine Palmer stands there, all glowing skin and unapologetic energy. She’s shed the sharp edges of her city armor for something softer—an oversized sweater, worn-in boots, the kind of outfit you wear when someone makes you want to stay a while.
The second our eyes meet, it’s instinct. We squeal, rush into each other’s arms, and jump up and down like we’re twenty again. It’s loud, ridiculous, and everything you’d expect when someone reconnects with a missing piece of themselves. And that’s what Max is to me—home wrapped in a person.
Beside her is Eli. And when she says his name, her voice does that thing—bright and sharp with pride, soft with affection. “Eslin, this is Eli. Eli, meet my best friend, Eslin Saunders.”
Eli is big. Tall, muscular, dark chocolate brown, long hair. Beautiful. I genuinely did not know lumberjacks came in Black but here he stands.
Eli extends a hand, warm, steady. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Likewise,” I say, and I mean it. He looks like every story Max has whispered down the phone finally found its shape.
I shake Eli’s hand, firm and polite, then drag Max into another hug—because one just isn’t enough. It’s been ages, but the second she’s in my arms, it feels like we’re those two college kids again.
At the start of summer, Max and I had plans to road-trip to Canada for a romance conference.
But luck—or maybe fate—had other ideas. I got sick and couldn’t make it.
Max, being Max, refused to cancel. She went on her own and wound up stranded in a ditch on the wrong side of the border with no friendly faces in sight.
Lucky for her, Eli showed up. And seeing him now—and more importantly, seeing the way he looks at her—I finally understand why she never came back.
As I’m showing Max and Eli to the guest room, timing betrays me again.
Grant appears. Damp hair pushed back, skin still flushed from the shower, dressed in a gray jogging suit that somehow makes him look both relaxed and devastating. He stops when he sees us, eyes flicking briefly to me before settling politely on Max and Eli.
“Company,” he says, voice low but even.
Max raises a brow, lips curving into something smug. “Well, well. Looks like I’m not the only one with surprises.”
I freeze, not sure how to handle this. Max has been so wrapped up in Eli that I haven’t exactly unloaded any of this onto her. Tatum and Holly have been the ones keeping me upright through the chaos. And now Dr. Mikari.
“So, uh, Max. This is Grant Mills. Grant, this is my best friend Max—and her boyfriend—”
“Fiancé,” Max corrects with a grin that nearly splits her face. My jaw drops, and before I can stop myself, I’m squealing, hugging her all over again.
When we finally come up for air, Grant extends his hand to Eli, then to Max, polite as ever. Max, of course, ignores it and pulls him in for a hug.
This part feels normal. The part where you introduce your boyfriend to your best friend, and they actually seem to get along. Where life feels easy, seamless.
Grant doesn’t linger, apparently he’s got cooking to do of his own. But he also doesn’t shy away from leaning down and kissing me goodbye—right in front of them. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
The smile that spreads across my face is impossible to fight. “See you tomorrow, Mister.”
The door clicks shut behind him, and I turn back to Max, still reeling from everything at once. She just levels me with a look, lips twitching into a wicked grin.
“Okay, bitch. I need details. I’ll even peel the potatoes.”