Page 17 of The Game Changer (Knights of Passion #3)

Chapter

Twelve

D ylan glanced at the clock for what felt like the hundredth time and muttered a curse under his breath.

Of all the damn days for Savannah to be late, it had to be this one.

The day he’d decided to pull off some half-cocked, team-bonding cookout like he actually knew what he was doing.

She’d promised she’d be there to help—sworn she’d come early—but now? Nothing. No texts. No calls. No sign.

She could be caught up in an animal emergency, he reasoned. But would it kill her to send one quick message?

Sadie let out a soft, anxious whine at his feet, picking up on his tension like the empathic genius she was. He glanced down, hands slick with ground beef as he formed another patty.

“Sorry, girl. It’s not you. Go lie down.”

With a long, martyred sigh, Sadie dropped to the cool tile floor and flopped onto her side, resting her muzzle across his bare foot like she was disappointed in him. Great. Now even the dog was judging him.

He added the patty to the platter and washed his hands, careful not to jostle Sadie too much.

She groaned softly and rolled off his foot as he slid the plate into the fridge.

He turned back to scan the kitchen, weighing whether he had time to run out for the salads Savannah had insisted they needed—or whether he should wait her out—when the loud, juddering groan of the garage door rumbled to life.

Sadie leapt up, barking once and then bolting to the door with a mad wag of her tail. Dylan exhaled, both relief and residual irritation bleeding through as he followed more slowly, forcing a few calming breaths.

He cracked the door and blocked Sadie with his foot just as the garage door finished closing behind her SUV.

The timing couldn’t have been tighter—Carl burst from the backseat and made a beeline for the door.

Dylan stepped back to let the big guy in, then headed into the muggy heat to help with the bags.

He reached for a plastic grocery sack just as it slipped from Savannah’s fingers. She whirled, but he had it—and the other swinging bag that nearly clocked him in the temple.

“Oh shit. I’m sorry! Be careful. That one has the container of potato salad. That’ll leave a hell of a knot.”

Dylan grunted and straightened, eyeing her warily. With Savannah, anything could happen in thirty seconds—she was chaos in a ponytail. Gorgeous, maddening chaos. She ducked back into the car and emerged with two more bags, shoving them at him.

“Grab these while I carry the brownies and the fruit tray.”

He stared down at his hands, the plastic bags cinching around his fingers like tourniquets. “What is all this?”

She blew out a dramatic breath. “Your list? For your big, brave, manly barbecue? Did you think you had everything?”

He shot a glance toward the door, one brow raised. “Kind of, yeah.”

She rolled her eyes and hoisted the brownies like they were sacred relics. “I left you a note. I told you I needed more and was going to get it today. Didn’t you see it on your little whiteboard thing?”

Dylan followed her inside, arms aching, and dumped the bags on the kitchen table like they’d been loaded with bricks. He flexed his fingers slowly, half convinced he’d lost circulation for good.

He turned toward the phone nook and grimaced. “That’s what confused me. You actually followed my directions. I never thought of checking the board. I was looking for post-its and scraps of paper.”

She pouted with mock innocence, then grinned. “Maybe I’m converting you to the Savannah Monroe method of organization.”

He shuddered. “God forbid.”

He let the dogs out back while she started unloading the groceries.

He leaned against the counter and watched her move—smooth and efficient, totally in her element.

Every stretch pulled her T-shirt tight across her chest, and when she reached for the top shelf, her shorts rode up just enough to make his brain short-circuit.

Restraint be damned.

He rounded the counter and closed the distance just as she turned. She bumped into his chest with a surprised little sound, and his hand instinctively caught her waist, steadying her.

“I never said thank you. Or a proper hello,” he said, his voice low, roughened by want.

She tilted her face up to his, the barest smile tugging at her lips. “We do believe in proper hellos in the South. That’s just good manners.”

Anticipation shimmered in her eyes, lighting him up from the inside.

“I might need a few lessons in being a Southern gentleman,” he murmured.

“You’re making a good start.”

She lifted onto her toes and kissed him—soft, sure, stealing the moment right out from under him. Heat erupted, instant and searing. The banked fire from two nights ago hadn’t gone out. It had just waited, smoldering. Now it raged.

Her tongue brushed his lips, and he opened for her, meeting her kiss with raw hunger. He slid his hands down her back, cupped her ass, and pulled her hard against his growing erection. Her fingers tangled in his hair, nails dragging along his scalp, sending bolts of sensation down his spine.

He lifted her effortlessly and set her on the counter, sliding between her thighs like he belonged there. She wrapped her legs around his hips, locking him in, anchoring them both to this moment.

Her breath hitched as he stroked his tongue along hers, tasting her, drowning in her. His hands gripped her hips, fingers flexing against warm, bare skin.

Then she broke the kiss, twisting to the side with a gasp.

“What was that?”

The doorbell rang.

He groaned. Loudly.

“Damn it. They’re early.”

She let out a breathless laugh. “Not so early.”

She hopped down, steadying herself on his arm. “I’ll be right out.”

And then she vanished down the hallway, leaving him rock-hard, breathless, and entirely unprepared for company.

He braced his hands on the counter, head bowed, eyes shut tight, and counted to a hundred. Twice. It didn’t help.

The doorbell rang again, more impatiently this time.

“I’m coming, dammit!” he barked.

From the bathroom: “Be nice, Dylan!”

Easy for her to say. She was hiding in the bathroom while he had to greet half his team with a hard-on and sweaty palms.

He muttered a curse, adjusted his shorts, and headed to the front door.

He already knew he’d never hear the end of this.

F ive guys showed up for the cookout—a solid turnout, even if Savannah had expected a few more.

Dylan introduced them with short, clipped nods and a hand planted on the small of her back, his fingers possessive and warm.

She’d noticed how his grip subtly tightened when a younger guy—Cody Patterson—made an entire performance out of greeting her, kissing her hand and throwing out enough charm to power a stadium scoreboard.

Dylan scowled and yanked her closer, his body brushing hers like a territorial warning. It was all very caveman—and if he’d checked in with her first, she might have even found it hot.

As it stood, her legs were still slightly unsteady from their earlier kitchen encounter.

Her lips tingled from his kiss, her heart still jittery in her chest, and her mind couldn’t seem to form a complete thought, let alone a protest. But that conversation—the what does this mean?

one—was galloping toward them, unavoidable now, especially with the possessive tension simmering in Dylan’s jaw and the iron grip he had on her arm.

Within thirty minutes, the group had settled in.

The guys lounged around the patio table, beers in hand, swapping stories and baseball stats like they were trading cards.

Hitters, pitchers, ballparks, rotations—it was a language Savannah didn’t speak.

Not fluently, anyway. She’d grown up around small-town baseball, but this?

This was on another level. Major leagues.

High stakes. A team of alpha men all trying to out-banter each other between sips of beer.

One player had brought his dog, a large black and white pittie, and after a round of enthusiastic sniffing and chaotic chasing, all the pups were collapsed in the shade, panting with their tongues lolling out.

Inside, Savannah found refuge in the kitchen under the pretense of making more sweet tea.

In reality, she was hiding. She didn’t know where she stood—if she was hostess or guest, girlfriend or just the dog sitter.

Two of the other guys had brought their significant others: Gabrielle, Nick’s wife, a warm, no-nonsense brunette with a soft Southern accent; and Candice, Alex’s girlfriend, a perfectly put-together, career woman with sleek dark hair and calculating eyes.

She told herself she was just being helpful, but the truth gnawed at her—she didn’t know where she fit in here.

Dylan hadn’t exactly defined their status.

And surrounded by wives and girlfriends with clearly marked roles, she suddenly felt like an imposter at someone else’s family reunion.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Dylan glanced toward the window, caught her gaze through the glass, and tilted his head—his eyes asking a quiet question. She pasted on a smile, feigned nonchalance, and looked down quickly, swirling the tea with unnecessary focus.

The sliding glass door screeched open.

She jerked and sloshed sweet tea over her hand.

Cody Patterson sauntered into the kitchen like he owned it, leaned across the island with a lazy smirk that practically dripped innuendo. His eyes swept over her, half-lidded and far too confident.

“So, you’re the one who’s got our Professor tied up in knots, huh? I can see why he’s been distracted lately. I’d get a dog if it came with someone like you. Woof.”

She blinked. Seriously?

And then, unexpectedly, she laughed. A burst of bright, uncontrolled amusement escaped her lips before she could stop it. The pure absurdity of the line, his delivery—it was too much.