Page 50 of Worth the Shot

He stops. “What do you mean you don’t have gas?”

I keep walking, like that somehow makes it less embarrassing. “I mean exactly what I said. I don’t have gas.”

“Delaney.”

“I never have gas,” I add, like that clears everything up.

He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he follows me toward his truck, opening the passenger door. “That is…deeply concerning.”

“It builds character,” I shoot back, climbing into the seat.

“Or leaves you stranded on the side of the road,” he says before shutting the door.

“Semantics,” I say as soon as he’s in the driver’s seat.

He just laughs again, softer this time, and starts the engine. There’s a brief pause as he pulls out of the lot, his fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel like he’s thinking about something. Then, without a word, he reaches over and taps his phone.

A second later, Cruel Summer fills the car.

I turn toward him, narrowing my eyes slightly. “Did you just⁠—”

“You said she was your favorite.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing. And it shouldn’t feel like something. But it does.

I sink back into my seat, shaking my head as a smile slips out anyway, the kind I don’t even try to hide. And just like that, somewhere between the soft hum of the engine and the familiar lyrics filling the space between us, the nerves start to settle—replaced by something quieter. Something warmer. Something that feels a little too much like anticipation.

We pull up to Miles’s house and Brennan cuts the engine, but he doesn’t make a move to get out. He just sits there, hands resting on the wheel, staring straight ahead like he’s caught on something. By the time he finally opens his mouth to speak, the dashboard has gone dark, and the only light left is the soft wash of pink and orange from the sun slipping below the trees.

“What’s your favorite flower, Laney?” he asks, like it’s been sitting on his tongue the whole drive.

I let out a quiet huff of a laugh. “I hate flowers.”

He turns his head slowly, like I just told him I kick kittens for fun. “You hate flowers?” he repeats, a teasing edge slipping into his voice. “Do you also hate puppies? Old people? Sunshine?”

“I’m not a monster,” I say, bumping my shoulder into his.

He laughs, but then he nudges mine back, but this time he doesn’t pull away. He just lets it linger there, touching mine. Suddenly I’m very aware of it. Of him. Of how close we are in a space that somehow feels smaller than it did five minutes ago. His eyes find mine, and something in my chest trips over itself. My breath catches, like my lungs forgot what they were supposed to do for a second. I swallow, my voice quieter now, a little less guarded as I lean into him just slightly.

“Flowers remind me of funerals,” I admit. “Specifically my dad’s.”

The teasing disappears from his face so fast it almost startles me. But he doesn’t look away. Not even when I do, just for a second, trying to steady myself.

“There were so many,” I continue, softer now.

When his hand slides across the seat to find mine, I turn it over and let him. He squeezes once, gentle and sure, then guides it to rest on his thigh, our fingers tangled together like they belong there. My pulse kicks hard against my ribs and goosebumps chase down my arms. I try to get my bearings long enough to keep talking.

“I couldn’t get away from the smell for weeks,” I say. “It clung to everything. My clothes, my hair…my room.” I let out a shaky breath, shaking my head. “Didn’t matter how many times I washed anything. It was just…there.”

Silence settles between us, but it isn’t uncomfortable. It’s heavy, sure, but not in the kind of way that makes me want to run.

For once, it makes me want to stay.

I lean into his touch, letting my head fall lightly against his arm. He shifts closer without hesitation, lowering his head until it rests against mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Okay,” he says quietly after a second, like he’s filing that away somewhere important. “No flowers for you.”

My lips twitch, just barely. “Glad we cleared that up.”

He pulls back and studies me for another beat, like he wants to say more but isn’t sure if he should. Then, instead of pushing, he just nods once and finally reaches for the door handle.