Wild for You (Hot Jocks #6)(24)

“You’re much better than he is. Some people don’t have the magic touch,” Grant says, interrupting my thoughts. “Now you know why I want to keep you around.”

I lick my lips. “So, are you saying that I have that magic touch?”

My voice is lower now, a little sultrier. This isn’t my massage voice. No, this is my flirting voice—something a little darker and sweeter, dipped in bourbon and honey. And I’d be appalled at myself for using my flirty voice if I weren’t having so much fun. Grant’s chuckle on the other end of the line soaks my heart in buttery warmth, and I sink into the duvet with a happy sigh.

“You do. If you were a superhero, your power would be just that. One touch, and even your worst enemy would melt into a happy puddle.”

“Well, I only give massages to people I like,” I say, realizing a moment too late that I’ve said too much.

“Then I’m honored.” Grant’s tone is careful, as if he’s only saying half of what he’s thinking.

Part of me wants to push him to spill the beans, and the other half is perfectly okay with unspilled beans at this point in our friendship.

Friendship. I guess it is. Before, we were acquaintances at best, but I realize that’s changed these past couple of days.

“You’ve been a really, really good friend, Grant,” I say, suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to tell him how kind he’s been to me. “Thank you for caring.”

“You make it easy,” he says softly, and my eyes immediately prick with hot tears.

I didn’t realize how badly I needed to hear that. After years of the kind of love that made me tired from the deepest parts of my soul, I always assumed there was something about me that made it difficult to be with me. Difficult to care about me.

“You should tell that to Jason,” I say with a sigh. A joke in poor taste, maybe, but I can’t help it. I’m so comfortable talking to Grant. The words come easily. Even those about my dick ex-boyfriend.

“If I ever see Jason again, I don’t think we’ll do much talking,” Grant grumbles, and I giggle, smiling like an idiot again. It’s nice to have a protector for a change.

“I appreciate that, but please don’t do anything—”

“I wouldn’t.”

“I know.”

The line is quiet for a few moments, and I can feel my heart pounding again. I have this urge to tell him something about myself that no one knows, something personal. Something that matters. But what would I tell him that I haven’t already? I’ve already told him about my mom . . . about losing her. I haven’t told many people about that part of me.

As if he reads my mind, Grant’s voice fills my ear once again. “It’s raining here. How’s the weather over there?”

My heart swells. I know he’s asking because he’s thinking about how I can’t sleep when it’s storming at night. Because of what happened to my mom.

I take a moment to listen for rain on the windows, covered now by heavy, dark blue curtains, before responding in a quiet whisper.

“No rain here. I wouldn’t be able to hear it anyway, over the dog’s snoring.” I wince, scrunching my eyes closed. Dang. “He’s in bed with me . . . is that okay?”

“Yeah, why?” Grant’s answer is immediate and laced with confusion.

“Some people don’t like the smell of dog on the furniture. Dirt, and whatever,” I say, which is odd enough in itself. Did he really not think about this when he allowed a rambunctious little furball into his home?

“Oh, I don’t care at all. We had a dog when I was growing up. Ruby slept on the couch.”

“Ruby?”

“She was a yellow Lab. My mom and dad adopted her shortly after they adopted me. I wasn’t that social as a kid.”

“Oh, really? You weren’t?” I tease, curling my toes into the sheets.

“I know. I did a real one-eighty as an adult, didn’t I?” Grant chuckles.

We’re both dissolving into laughter when I hear an unfamiliar voice on the other end, calling for Grant.

“I’m on the phone. Hold on.” His voice is distant for a moment, like he’s holding the phone away from his mouth to respond to this mystery person.

I bite my lip. I don’t want this phone call to end.

“Sorry,” Grant says. “That was Jordie. I guess he found me.”

“Were you hiding?”

“Something like that.” Grant chuckles again.

I really love that sound. It’s deep and rumbly, and slices right through me.

“Well, I’ll let you go, then,” I say, ignoring the subtle ache in my chest. Time to be a grown-up. I can’t spend all night giggling on the phone with a boy, like we’re hormonal teenagers.

Grant sighs, and I can imagine him scrubbing his face with one hand like he does. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Big game tomorrow. Probably should attempt to get some sleep.”

“Good luck,” I say, meaning it with my whole heart. He deserves to win.

“Thank you, Ana,” he says, and I commit to memory the sound of my name on his lips. “Sleep well, okay? And call me if you need anything.”

“I will. Good night, Grant.”

“Good night.”