Page 85 of The Score We Never Settled

“Mrs. Goodwin and Miss Christopher,” he greets in this deep, absolutely panty-melting tone that has me dumbstruck from asking him what the hell he’s doing here and lacking any real common sense. “I’ll grab you whatever you need, but my wife here needs to eat, or she’ll keel over from lack of calories and not enough breaks.”

They both beam at him like he’s asked them to follow him over a cliff, and they’d be glad to go about doing that if they could just openly stare at him while they do.

He’s forming a damn cult around here.

An aluminum foil something appears in front of me, and I don’t ask questions; I just take it because peppering off eight hundred questions in front of customers isn’t going to help with the unsolicited commentary from the two ladies in front of me.

“That’s the sweetest thing,” Mrs. Goodwin addresses with a smile that fully reaches her eyes. “We don’t mind.”

Briggs gently guides me toward the coffee machines and turns me around. Without a word, an inkling of how I’m feeling about him being behind my line, or anything else for that matter, he grabs my hips, and my body explodes into an inferno of eagerness that only happens when he has control.

He lifts me with ease, then gently places my ass on the countertop before he plucks the aluminum foil wrapper out of my hands and unwraps one end.

“Breakfast burrito,” he informs me. “Scrambled eggs, bacon, wrapped in a pancake with maple syrup in it.” He hands it back over and looks up at me. “Your favorite.”

It is my favorite.

He remembered my favorite.

Goddamn it.

His green eyes bolt to mine as a familiar and fluttery sensation goes off in my chest. He’s wearing that backwards baseball cap again that I’m just an entire sap and sucker for when I hear both Miss Christopher and Mrs. Goodwinoohand coo over his nice act.

But, through my pounding heartbeat, I don’t register embarrassment or a need to regain control of the situation.

No, I immediately want to remain in this position and eat my pancake burrito.

“Extra syrup is in the bag,” Briggs apprises softly. “Eat, Short Stop. You need it.”

I stare at him like he’s a stranger when, obviously, I’ve known him forever. We just haven’t been able to dothisbefore. All this in public.

Briggs then throws the cherry on top of the scene and kisses my forehead softly, lingering there for a few added seconds before turning on his heels to help his two new favorite customers at a bakery that’s not even his.

I feel a heavy stare on me, alluding to theotherman in the space, when I finally glance over at Blake. His eyes are wide and elated to finally meet my now-famous husband, whom I’ve never mentioned a day in my life before.

He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at me before he quickly falls in line with Briggs, cashing out our customers and keeping the line moving.

And, me, I nibble on my food and watch the scene unfold.

Briggs is quick to find and remember everything once Blake offers his assistance with a few things. The women flock and wait patiently for Briggs to help them. All asking him the same questions on how he’s been, why he hasn’t dropped by and said hi yet, and if he’s going to come by more.

He answers them all, but I don’t register what he says because I’m too busy getting the back view of his shoulders and how his black t-shirt emphasizes and forms a perfect picture of his body underneath.

Briggs is in top-tier shape, and I’m scared to know what he looks like shirtless now. He’s committed to his training and working out, and Lord knows what kind of sinful goodness lies underneath that fabric.

Probably enough to stroke a woman out.

I finish up my breakfast, about to slide off the countertop, and help with the last few customers when Briggs seems to sense my movement and promptly revolves around and hits me with a shake of his head.

“Let it digest, then you can go crazy.”

Let it digest, then you can go crazy.

I want to tell him I can handle my own business and I’m fine, but he closes the distance between us like he knows what just popped in my head.

“Can you make me a caramel cookie butter something?”

My head bobs like the traitor it is when I ask, “Is it for you?”