Page 12 of The Game Plan

Gray zeroes in on Ivy. “Is he sleeping?”

“I put him down twenty minutes ago.”

Baby G might not sleep at night, but he naps like a champ, a good two hours at a stretch. Something Gray knows better thanI do.

He grins. “Shenanigans are go.”

Yeah, I don’t even want to know what that means, though I can guess.

Especially when Ivy blushes. “Seriously?”

“As a Hail Mary on Super Bowl Sunday. On your feet, woman. Time’s a wasting.”

Ivy grumbles under her breath about perverted cupcakes—again, don’t want or need to know—and then gets to her feet. She’shauled off by Gray a second later. He carries her up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“I got to give it to him,” I say to Dex, who hasn’t left the kitchen. “His stamina is impressive.”

“Motivation helps,” he answers dryly. God, he has a nice voice. Smooth, deep, even. “But then, you know, we do train for stamina.”

There’s a gleam in his eyes that goes straight to my sex, gives it a teasing tweak.

I lurch up from my seat and refill my coffee cup because I’m not falling for that one. “You want a cup?” I ask.

Dex still hasn’t moved from the entrance to the kitchen. Steady as always, I suppose. While I’m fluttering around like a fool.

He nods and walks to the heavy pine farm table that sits beneath a wall of windows.

The table fills me with pride because I made it. I never intended to make furniture, but my two friends Jackson and Hal arefurniture designers and cajoled me to give it a try. I love creating something with my own hands, going from concept to completion.

This table was my first try, and while I see where I could improve things, the design works well here, counterbalancing themodern, gleaming white cabinets and copper-covered appliances—Ivy thought steel was boring.

And because veritable giants live in this house, the seats are large and sturdy. Even so, Dex’s frame swallows up the chairas he sits in it.

I bring him a cup, and then I notice: he’s wearing his hair down. Holy hell. It falls in thick, brown waves to the top ofhis collar. The sun has left streaks of gold running through it. And while the combination of full beard and flowing hairshould be too much—call to mind an iconic Jesus or something—it isn’t. It just looks hot. Wild.

Touchable.

I sit and curl my fingers around my mug.

He does the same, and the late-morning sun shines through the window, illuminating his tattoos. Black and red roses, a clock,a sugar skull, an indigo dragon, a 1940s battleship—there’s a lot to look at. They run up his arms and under his sleeves,making me wonder if his chest and torso are covered too.

“Do they have meaning?” I ask, because I’m clearly looking.

“Some do.” His rich voice is almost a shock to my system, as if by speaking, he’s flicked my senses into overload. But hedoesn’t notice. “Some of them just came to me while I was drawing.”

“You drew these?”

He nods, takes a sip of his coffee. “It relaxes me.”

“I like to draw too. Mostly room designs nowadays.”

“You did a great job with the house,” he says, not bothering to look around. I have no doubt he’s already made a study ofthe entire place.

“Thanks.”

I’d like to think we’re just making chitchat. That we’re just like any other casual acquaintances who happen to be houseguestsat the same time and place. But that’s not what’s happening. Because Dex’s gaze never leaves mine.

It’s unnerving. Hot. As if behind his light conversation, what he’s really saying is:You loved it, didn’t you? Sucking on my tongue, grinding on my cock. You want it again, don’t you?