Page 27 of The Game Plan
“What’re the rules, Peach?”
Nerves dance across my chest as I rip off a piece of bacon. Chewing the deliciousness, I revel in the fact that it’s cooked the way I like it—crispy with a few chewy spots.
“Wait,” Grant says, pushing off from the counter and stepping toward the door. He bends down to his backpack and pulls out a notebook and a Sharpie. “If we’re going to make rules, let’s make them official.”
He places the notebook and marker beside me as he takes his place across from me. Reaching for the marker, I uncap it and flip to a blank page. At the top, I write:Roomie Rules.
“First, you can’t be walking around shirtless.”
“Peach.” The corner of his lips twitches. “It’s my apartment.”
I glare, stomach fluttering.
“Fine, I’ll wear a shirt, then, not to tempt you,” he says, exasperated. “But only if you promise to treat the apartment as if it’s your own. No tip-toeing around. No holding yourself in your room. You live here, solive.”
I jot down the rule, chewing on my lip, because the man knows the right things to say. He knows that if it’s arule, I’ll follow it.
“Don’t be fake-nice. If I’m annoying you, tell me. Don’t put on a show for me.”
He straightens, jaw ticking.
“I can’t handle mixed signals, Grant,” I say, voice wobbling slightly. “I already feel like a walking disaster most days. I need to know there’s a line and we aren’t crossing it.”
He’s quiet for a beat, then nods. I let out a deep breath.
“But just so you know,” he adds, reaching for my empty plate. “Me being nice to you isn’t a signal. It’s me actually giving a damn about you.”
I freeze.
“Because, despite whatever you think…” He continues, tone cool but steady, as he moves around the island, toward where I’m sitting.
I avert my gaze before he can see whatever emotion just cracked through me. Leaning forward, his mouth hovers above my ear as his breath skates over my skin, goosebumps pebbling in its wake. “I still care. And that’s not gonna change because things got complicated.”
Ho-ly.Fuck. Chills skate down my spine as his words set in, causing my thighs to clench and my nipples to pebble.
Complicated. Yeah, that’s the understatement of the year. Shit didn’t get complicated—I got pregnant…by another man, even though we weren’t together.
He stands to his full height, taking his warmth with him. “I’ve got to head to the stadium for practice.” His voice is casual, as if his admission didn’t knock my world off its axis. “I’ll be therefor most of the day with back-to-back meetings after strength training and practice.”
I nod, forcing myself to act as if I’m not affected by him. “I’ve got a late shift at the call center anyway. I’ll probably head out around two to catch the bus.”
That has him stopping in his tracks, his broody expression firm on his face. Digging in his pocket, he pulls out his keys and sets them next to me. “Take my truck. I’ll catch a ride with Riggsby.”
“Grant…”
“Take my truck, Savannah.” There’s no room for argument, and secretly, I’m glad he’s giving me his keys. My shift doesn’t end until eleven, some nights, eleven-thirty, which means I won’t get back to this bus stop until twelve or twelve-thirty. Riding the bus at night isn’t the best feeling.
His hand slides into his pocket as he pulls out his phone, turning the corner to his bedroom to finish getting ready for work. With my plate cleaned already, I shimmy off the stool and scurry to my room, needing to get away from this tension-filled kitchen.
I’m never going to survive living with Grant Campbell.
The truck door slams shut, rattling through the air as I drop onto the passenger seat of Crew’s pickup. The damn thing smells like stale Taco Bell and a locker room, but I’d sacrifice my sense of smell any time to make sure Savannah didn’t take the bus to work tonight.
As we go by my building, I can’t help but look up at the second story and wonder what Savannah is doing now that I’ve left. Hopefully, she’s curling up on the couch with her coffee, making herself at home.
Crew breaks the silence first with his annoyingly coy voice. “So…” he draws out, voice thick with suggestion. “How’s it going?”
“It’s going,” I say flatly, keeping my focus on the drive to campus.
