Somewhere behind us, Clarke was doubled over, laughing. Matty hollered after Mo, offering to trade her for another hot dog.Not spoiled, my ass.
“I swear”—I panted, sprinting across the grass—“if she eats it, I’m never talking to Matty again.”
Pink huffed. “And give up access to his pool? Yeah, right.”
The race continued. Somewhere behind me, I heard the sliding glass door open, and a few new voices filtered out across the yard, but I couldn’t be bothered to investigate. Not while this furry little fucker still had my baby’s first photo between her teeth.
The two of us barreled across the grass like a couple of mall cops chasing our perp. And just when I finally had her in my sight, my foot snagged on the edge of a deflated pool floatie.
One second, I was going down, and the next, a pair of strong hands were hauling me back against a well-toned chest.
My breath caught in my throat before I even looked up. I knew that grip, that warm and woodsy smell.
Brooks.
Oh, fuck.
He caught me with one strong arm, the other landing instinctively on my hip as he eased me back onto my feet. His hands were rough and warm, and despite the late afternoon heat radiating off the concrete, his touch sent a full-body shiver straight through me.
I barely had time to recover before I registered just how close we were—or how fucking hot he looked. It wasn’t often that I saw him out of athletic wear, but Brooks Bailey-Ward in a pair of jeans was almost too much to handle. The way they clung to his thighs, cupped his crotch. I felt my face get hot, and I knew my blush would give me away any second.
And then there was the backwards hat.My kryptonite.The man was a walking, talking orgasm.
When his attention raked over my body, I was suddenly very aware of just how naked I was. And just like that, the heat on my skin had nothing to do with the sun.
“What are you doing here?” I managed, voice low and shaky.
“Heller invited me for a beer,” he said, nodding toward the long-haired man standing by the pool.
Brock Heller was a sports journalist turned podcaster turned novelist who had recently stepped back from his journalistic career to focus on writing his next queer romance novel. He was also dating the Roasters’ second baseman, Johnathan Tucker.
Brooks looked around the yard, confused. “I didn’t realize the whole team would be here.”
I stepped back, trying to reclaim my heartbeat. “Yeah, it’s an unofficial movie night slash housewarming party.”
He blinked, still a little out of sorts, and that was when the yelling started again.
“What the hell?”
Matty’s voice rang out from the middle of the lawn. All eyes turned toward him just as he held something up above his head, waving it through the air.
Double fuck.
Mo was now sprawled beside him on the grass, tongue lolling, completely unrepentant.
Matty squinted at the image. “Alrighty, which one of you is knocked up?”
Silence fell over the yard like someone had hit the mute button. Heads spun. Drinks paused mid-sip. Even the music from the outdoor speakers seemed to fade.
And then, slowly, every pair of eyes turned toward me.
Clarke murmured something that sounded like, “Well, crap on a cracker.”
Nessa covered her eyes.
And Brooks . . . his eyes ping-ponged back and forth between me and the photo Matty was waving. His hands had dropped from my waist, but I could still feel the heat of them like they’d been branded there.
“Dani?” he asked quietly.
