Page 119 of Worth the Shot

“No need to apologize,” she says kindly. “My husband has looked at me that way for forty years. She’s a lucky girl.”

“I’m the lucky one,” he says without hesitation, his eyes never leaving me as I introduce myself to her. After a bit of polite small talk, the woman excuses herself, leaving us alone. Brennan reaches for my drink, takes a sip, then hands it back to me like everything that's mine is also his. Ours.

“Forty years,” I say, taking a sip after him. “That’s a long time to look at someone that way.”

“And for some reason, to me, it doesn’t feel like enough time at all.” He smirks, then winks, and I fall in love all over again, so many times, in that moment.

His hand wraps around mine, like a promise, when he asks, “What do the next forty years look like for you, Delaney Collins?”

“For me?” I say softly. “That part’s easy. It looks like choosing life with you. No matter how hard it gets. It looks like being here, or even somewhere else, because the truth is, Bren…I’ve never felt at home in a person the way I do with you.”

His honey-brown eyes lock on mine as he breathes in a slow, shaky breath and kisses my hand, swiping his thumb back and forth while he lets me finish.

“So wherever life takes you—takes us—I’m in,” I say. “I choose you. No matter what it looks like, I’ll always choose you. Us. I love you, Brennan Hale. Now take me home.”

He smiles, his forehead resting against mine as the world fades to nothing but us.

“Sounds like you’re already there,” he murmurs before kissing me until every worry I’ve ever had fades away. Like he just inked the easiest deal on forever, no-trade clause included.

Epilogue

Delaney

6 MONTHS LATER

There are boxes everywhere.

Half-packed, half-forgotten, stacked against the walls of Brennan’s apartment like they’ve been there forever even though this only became real a few weeks ago. Truthfully, I’ve been practically living here for months. I just finally decided to move the rest my things into Brennan’s—our—apartment.

My life has been reduced to cardboard and tape and Sharpie labels that say things like SWEATERS and BOOKS and MISC because apparently I gave up caring halfway through. I kick my shoes off at the door and drop my bag with a groan, every muscle in my body begging for mercy. Twelve hours in the trauma bay will do that to you. My feet throb, my shoulders ache and my brain feels like static.

“You alive?” Brennan calls from the kitchen.

“Debatable,” I mumble, peeling my jacket off and tossing it onto a box labeled LINENS. I sink down onto the couch and let my head fall back, eyes closed. “If I die right here, just know it was an honor loving you.”

I hear him laugh, the soft, warm, familiar sound enveloping me. The sound of home. “Don’t even think about it,” he says. “I’ve got something for you.”

I crack one eye open just as he walks in, holding my favorite mug. Steam curls lazily over the rim, cinnamon dusted perfectly across the foam.

A gingerbread latte.

Of course.

“You’re unfair,” I say quietly, sitting up.

He shrugs like it’s nothing, but his eyes give him away. “Figured you could use it.”

I take it from him, hands wrapping around the warmth like it’s oxygen. The first sip nearly knocks me out. It’s sweet, spicy and exactly right. “You’ve ruined all other coffee for me,” I tell him.

“Good,” he says easily. “Keeps you dependent.”

I snort, but my chest tightens anyway.

He sits next to me, one arm draping over the back of the couch, fingers brushing my shoulder. I lean into him without thinking, because it’s instinct. The apartment smells like cardboard and cinnamon and him.

“This feels weird,” I admit after a moment. “Unpacking my life from boxes.”

“Good weird or scary weird?” he asks.