Page 75 of Worth the Shot

No wavering.

Just his lips claiming mine like he wants everyone to know I’m his.

I know everyone is watching. I don’t need to look up to confirm it. I can feel their eyes on us as the room goes quiet for a second. When he pulls away, our eyes lock, and I know he feels it too. Everything else fades out until it’s just us.

And then—right on brand—Wes ruins it.

“FINALLY! I WIN! I WON A BET!” he yells, jumping up and down like a four-year-old who just heard the ice cream truck.

“You two couldn’t have waited a few more days to do that in front of us?” Miles groans, throwing his hands up before digging into his pocket for his wallet. “That adorable little kiss just cost me two hundred bucks. Hope it was worth it.”

“You assholes really bet on when we’d kiss in front of you?” Brennan laughs, shaking his head. “Do you have nothing better to do?”

He glances at Shayne. “You weren’t in on this too, were you?”

“Sadly, I was,” Shayne says, grimacing. “Lost a week ago. Most expensive public display of affection I’ve ever witnessed.”

“I hate all of you,” I mutter.

Brennan hooks his pinky with mine under the counter like he’s not quite ready to let go yet. The smile on his face is impossible to ignore—soft, proud, a little smug.

He gives me a look that’s somehow serious and playful at the same time, the kind that makes my whole body tingle, and then he winks at me. The same way he always does, but it still gets me every time.

I think I let out a small, traitorous sound.

There is no way I’m making it through the rest of this party.

Wes interrupts, looking between us like he senses a shift and then, like we just insulted him, he lets out a disgusted “Ew.” He proceeds to fist bump me and nudge me with his shoulder before grabbing a cupcake off the counter and shoving it in his mouth. Emma gives him a death stare, but he doesn’t flinch. In fact, because he is a special brand of crazy, he makes eye contact with her the entire time, and even still when he reaches for another.

Miles cuts the tension clean in half, between both Brennan and I and Emma and Wes, as he lifts me clean off the ground in a hug and sets down the case of beer he brought behind me.

“What can I do to help?” he asks, looking at Emma.

“Oh Miles, you really are every woman’s dream,” she says, shaking her head at Shayne.

“I’m helpful!” he argues, a little offended, and Emma smooths his back and reassures him with an, “Of course you are, honey.”

Brennan’s hand finds mine under the island counter again, this time squeezing lightly before bringing it up to his mouth. He kisses the back of my hand and then steps in to help Miles with whatever task Emma just gave him. I immediately recoil at the loss of his touch and when he looks over his shoulder and steals a glance at me I feel my face heat along with something else. Something lower, more feral and absolutely dangerous in front of all these people. And by people, I mean our closest friends and family.

Jo steps back into the room, her presence undoubtedly taking over everything else like it always does. She skips toward Miles and launches herself into a hug, wrapping her legs around him like a koala.

He laughs. “Good to see you too, Jo,” and sets her down. From the corner of my eye, I see Wes. He doesn’t say anything, but I see his jaw tick, face hardening just slightly as he cracks open a beer from the case on the counter.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” he mutters.

“Oh please, fuck all of the way off,” she says, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms like a child with the mouth of a truck driver.

“This is a TODDLER’S birthday party, can we please keep the cursing to a minimum?!” Emma exclaims, hands on her hips. Miles laughs, Shayne whacks Wes on the side of the head and reminds him to be nice as Jo goes about her business. Brennan gives me a wide-eyed look from across the room, and it immediately makes me smile.

Just then, Luca lets out an impatient cry, arms up as his little hands grasp air. “Bwen, UP,” he yells. Brennan stops what he’s doing, immediately, and scoops him from his chair.

“Hey bud,” he whispers, in the most gentle voice ever. Luca grabs his face with both hands, pressing his forehead to Brennan’s with the grace of a tiny drunk man who thinks he’s being incredibly profound. Brennan stills anyway, like Luca’s just handed him something fragile instead of smearing drool across his jaw. One of his hands comes up to steady Luca’s back, thumb moving in slow, absent circles, and I feel the impact of it low in my stomach.

It’s unfair, really.

Brennan Hale, six-foot-three, professional hockey player, built like he was specifically engineered to make women forget their own names—should not be this gentle. But yet, he is. In every single way.

Luca lets out a satisfied little hum, still pressing his forehead to Brennan’s like they’re exchanging state secrets. Brennan huffs a quiet laugh, nose brushing Luca’s, and I can’t help but watch them like they’re the most captivating things in the room.