Page 30 of The Game Changer (Knights of Passion #3)

Chapter

Twenty

D ylan walked up the cracked concrete path leading to Savannah’s modest bungalow, the deep blue twilight softening the rough edges of the small front yard.

He tugged at the hem of his black shirt, suddenly hyperaware of how it clung to his chest. His palms were damp.

Hell, he hadn’t been this nervous since prom—except this felt bigger.

Realer. As if more than one night was at stake.

The porch light flicked on, bathing the front stoop in golden light, and there sat Savannah’s sister—Lucy, if he remembered right—lounging in a battered plastic chair like a sentry at a castle gate.

A half-empty beer bottle dangled lazily from her hand, her posture loose but her gaze anything but.

Her eyes followed his every step, sharp and appraising, and not remotely friendly.

“You’re taking my sister out tonight,” she said flatly, the edge beneath her words unmistakable.

Dylan halted at the first step, keeping his tone even. “I am.”

He peered past her toward the door, trying to spot Savannah. No sign of her yet.

“Is she ready?”

Lucy lifted one long leg and propped it against the doorframe, effectively blocking the entrance. “Maybe we should talk first.”

He huffed a laugh before he could stop it, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. This was surreal. “What is this, an interrogation?”

She stood in one fluid motion, crossing her arms over her chest, her expression hardening. “Yes. Consider it a pre-date screening.”

Dylan mirrored her stance—arms folded, weight shifted onto one foot—but kept his body relaxed, his mouth tipping into a faint smile. “Okay, shoot. What do you want to know? My intentions?”

Her mouth twitched, but not in amusement.

“Are you planning on staying? Because my sister doesn’t need another guy using her until he gets bored and moves on.

If this is just something temporary for you, if you're going to leave—don’t start something you have no intention of finishing. She’s been hurt before.”

He straightened, the air shifting subtly around them. “Again?” he asked, brows drawing together. “What do you mean?”

Before Lucy could answer, the front door opened with a creak and Savannah appeared, stepping between them like a sudden breeze cutting through thick air.

“What’s going on, Lucy?”

In an instant, Lucy dropped the scowl and slouched against the doorframe, all faux-charm and lazy grins.

“Just bonding with your boyfriend. You’ve got yourself a handsome one.

” Her smile was sugar-coated venom, and she ran a teasing finger down the center of Dylan’s shirt, trailing along the buttons.

Savannah swatted her hand away with a warning glare. “Back off, Lu. And maybe try picking up after yourself once in a while.”

Then she stepped fully onto the porch—and the world went a little sideways.

The last sliver of sunlight caught her just right, setting the edges of her dark hair aglow. His breath snagged in his throat.

Gone were the shorts and oversized tees.

In their place, a sleek black dress hugged every dip and curve, the hem brushing several scandalous inches above her knee.

Lace traced along the neckline and hem like delicate black vines, teasing just enough to make his hands ache with the need to explore.

Her hair was twisted into a soft updo, with a few tendrils slipping free to frame her face in a way that made her look both elegant and completely undone.

He reached out, brushing one wayward curl behind her ear, letting his knuckles graze her cheek.

“Damn, Savannah,” he breathed, voice low and reverent. “You look good enough to eat.”

Her blush bloomed instantly, painting her cheeks pink as her lashes dropped, trying—but failing—to hide the smile tugging at her lips.

Lucy and another woman—curvy, confident, and casually stylish—both gave her approving nods, though Lucy still watched Dylan like she was calculating how fast she could break his kneecaps.

The new woman stepped forward and handed Savannah a small black clutch. “Here.”

Savannah blinked, surprised. “Oh—thanks. Dylan, this is Colleen Hart, my treasurer and partner at the rescue.”

He shook her hand, offering a genuine smile. “Nice to meet you, Colleen. Any warnings for me?”

Her eyes sparkled. “No warnings. I think you know how to be bad all on your own.” Then she gave Savannah a gentle push toward him and caught Lucy’s elbow with her other hand, keeping her firmly on the porch.

Dylan, sensing a brief reprieve from further interrogation, offered Savannah his arm.

It felt right—gentlemanly, but also grounding, as if they were both about to step into something neither of them quite understood.

She hesitated for a second before sliding her hand through the crook of his elbow.

Her fingers brushed his sleeve—warm, tentative—and he clasped her hand, twining his fingers with hers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They headed out to his SUV, his fingers twining in hers, not wanting to let her go, afraid she would change her mind and bolt back into her house.

D ylan led Savannah out of the SUV, handing the keys to the valet with a nod.

The old cobblestone street shimmered under the low-hanging street lamps, and a humid breeze carried the sweet scent of magnolias and salt from the nearby river.

He watched her as she looked around, her eyes going wide in wonder.

She tilted her face toward the sky, lips parting just slightly, and he swore his chest tightened.

“How did you know I loved the historic district? It’s like the heart of Savannah!”

The way she said it—with such unfiltered joy—made something shift in his chest. He hadn’t expected her to be so charmed by it. That smile of hers could flatten a man if he wasn’t careful.

He grinned, trying to play it cool even as her reaction made him feel ten feet tall. “Lucky guess.”

They hadn’t gone more than a few steps before a pair of kids approached, clutching paper and pens.

Savannah slowed beside him as the kids shyly asked for autographs.

He gave her an apologetic smile, but crouched down, scribbling his name on each one, chatting with them about baseball and their favorite players.

But before he could finish, a group of older men swooped in, more aggressive, holding out jerseys and balls—hard-eyed, greedy.

Dylan stood and brushed past them, his arm settling around Savannah’s waist as he guided her forward. “Gotta go, guys. Next time, maybe.”

“Asshole,” one of them muttered.

A camera flash lit up the sidewalk, too bright against the growing dusk. He winced, jaw tightening, and tucked her closer to his side as if that could protect her from it.

“Ignore them,” he said through clenched teeth.

She looked over her shoulder, startled. “What was that about?”

He didn’t want to ruin the evening, but there was no sense in lying.

“The older guys are memorabilia sellers. They hound players for autographs just to flip them online. I don’t mind the kids, but those vultures.

.. they ruin it.” He exhaled sharply, annoyed all over again.

“And the paparazzi? They’re always lurking, hoping to catch us slipping.

They love the scandal—it makes for better headlines. ”

Her eyes widened. “We’ll be in the papers?”

“Probably,” he grunted. “It’s a pain in the ass.”

Before he could spiral further into irritation, she touched his cheek—light, grounding—and turned his face toward hers. She brushed a soft kiss over his lips, stealing the tension right out of him.

“Don’t let it spoil our night. Okay?”

He smiled against her mouth, her warmth melting the cold frustration in his gut. “Fine,” he murmured, pressing his lips more firmly to hers. “But I expect more of that later.”

The restaurant was tucked into a historic house on a quiet side street, the kind of place with creaky wooden floors, wainscoting from a bygone century, and warm gaslight-style sconces that flickered with golden light.

The ma?tre d’ led them to a quiet table near a tall, wide window overlooking a small park where the last light of day bathed the treetops in soft amber hues.

It should’ve felt exposed. The wide window. The quiet hush of diners around them. But somehow, it felt like they were in a pocket of calm, tucked away from the noise and chaos of the outside world.

Their drinks arrived—something citrusy and light for her, bourbon for him—and she smoothed her napkin over her lap with more precision than necessary. Her hands were a little too careful. Her posture a little too straight.

He reached across the white tablecloth and wrapped his fingers around hers, grounding her. Her pulse beat under his thumb.

“You okay?”

She nodded, but the tension in her shoulders didn’t ease. “Just nervous, I guess. Weird, right? I’ve been to your house, slept in your bed?—”

He coughed a laugh. “Yeah. I know. But this is... different.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Because it’s an actual date?”

He grinned. “Something like that. I don’t get a lot of these. Not during the season.”

She tilted her head. “Really? That surprises me. I’d think you’d have women throwing themselves at you.”

“They do,” he said bluntly. “Doesn’t mean I want to catch them.”

She blinked, and he saw the flicker of realization cross her face.

“They could be decent women,” she offered, but her voice was softer now.

He gave her a dry smile. “They could. But most just want the player, not the man. They want a headline or a night out, maybe a ring photo for social media. It gets old, fast.”

His grip tightened without thinking, the years of guardedness slipping through. She didn’t pull away. Instead, her thumb brushed across his knuckles in slow, soothing circles.

“Okay, then tell me about Dylan Prosser. Something the magazines don’t know.”