Page 14 of Worth the Shot

Not anymore.

Not since…

I do not look back.

I will not look back.

…I look back.

He’s watching me. Just watching, openly and steady in a way that’s not pushing or pulling. Just…seeing me. Something in my chest flickers.

Hearing that for the first time in twelve years knocks the air from my lungs and I’m not sure how to feel. But I don’t correct him. No one does. They just frantically search me, waiting for eye contact, a noise, signs of life. I give them none of the above for as long as humanly possible until, finally, I cross the kitchen, like I didn’t just implode internally, and reach for a mug. My hands move on autopilot as I pour coffee, keeping my gaze steady, even though my pulse is doing the Macarena.

“I’m actually kind of hungry,” I say, sliding into a chair. “So I’ll stay.”

Emma snorts and I shoot her the kind of look that says don’t mess with me right now. She gets the memo and continues preparing the aforementioned pancake chaos. Brennan sits across from me, as if he enjoys watching me squirm.

“Well,” I say lightly. “Looks like you and I are going to be seeing a lot of each other.” Considering I’m two-for-two on run ins at a place I used to call my second home. Even if this one was accidentally on purpose. No one needs to know that, though.

He studies me with warmth in his eyes, not heat, not pressure. Just…gentle. I feel his gaze linger longer than I anticipate, and the second they look away, I let myself look.

Perfect skin. Those unfair, wasted-on-him eyelashes. His eyes are a light brown with a warm, honey glow. Dark hair that looks like someone just dragged their fingers through it paired with a subtle trace of a beard that’s just enough to make him look both soft and like he could ruin someone gently. Ruin me gently.

We finish up breakfast, and I get to work on cleanup duty. A responsibility generously assigned to me since I never cook.

Baking? Sure. Anytime. Especially if I need somewhere to put my feelings. Cooking, however, will never happen. I’d spend a thousand dollars on takeout before I willingly sauté anything.

“So,” he says softly. “Will you be at the game tonight?”

“Oh. Uh. Yeah.” I blink as I hand him a dish. “Will you?”

He laughs as he takes it from me. “Yeah, I think so.”

He smirks, eyes doing something deeply unhelpful to my internal organs. “Would be cool to know I’ve got a friend in the crowd.”

A friend. Right. That feels safe. Manageable.

“I can do that,” I say.

“Good.” He rinses a plate, then glances at me again. “Need all the support I can get.”

“You’re a professional athlete. I’m pretty sure you’ll survive without me screaming from section whatever.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But I’d rather not test it.”

My grip slips on the dish towel. I clear my throat and focus very hard on drying a fork. “Bold strategy. Putting that kind of pressure on one person.”

“I believe in you.”

“That makes one of us.”

He laughs, low and easy, and the sound lands somewhere inconvenient in my chest.

The kitchen goes quiet for a second, warm water running, dish towel twisting between my hands.

I should say something normal. Friendly. Mild. Something that doesn’t make me sound like I’ve forgotten how language works.

Instead, I hear myself say, “For the record, this still isn’t flirting.”