Page 8 of Worth the Shot

“Here,” he cuts in gently, already stepping closer.

Before I can finish my sentence or protest, he’s slipping the flannel over my shoulders.

Behind us, Emma opens the screen door that I didn’t realize we were standing dangerously close to, and it swings out just far enough to crash straight into my glass. Wine sloshes, then spills as the stem snaps against the deck with a sharp crack, red splattering like it’s putting on some kind of dramatic performance.

I freeze. Brennan does not. Emma, on the other hand, smirks. She stands there with her mouth scrunched to one side, clearly fighting a smile she has no intention of fully suppressing.

“Sorry,” she says, tilting her head in a way I absolutely do not trust, “am I interrupting something?”

I blink once, slowly. “Apparently yes,” I reply flatly, gesturing to the shattered remains of my dignity on the deck. “Considering you just interrupted the glass right out of my hand.”

Brennan laughs, and it’s an easy, unbothered sound as he immediately bends down to start picking up the broken pieces.

“I’ll take care of that,” Emma says, swooping in and plucking the glass from his hand before he can argue. Her grin widens, just a fraction.

Of course she will.

“Oh shit, you’re bleeding,” he says, already reaching for my hand.

The contact is instant. Electric. Like I stuck my finger straight into a socket I didn’t know was live. My body reacts before my brain can catch up and I pull my hand back on instinct, heart jumping into my throat.

Oh hell no. We are not doing this again.

I glance down to see a thin cut run across my palm, blood pooling slowly, dramatically. You’ve got to be kidding me.

“Shit,” I mutter.

“Let me grab you a bandaid⁠—”

“I’ve got it,” I say, a little too quickly and definitely a little too sharp. I hear it the second it leaves my mouth and immediately regret it. I soften, forcing a small smile to smooth over the moment I just cracked in half. “Sorry,” I laugh, suddenly nervous again, “I, uh...guess I could probably use the help, considering I’m down a hand.”

Just then, Emma returns with a Band-Aid and supplies from their First Aid kit. Brennan takes it from her, and motions for me to sit on the steps of the deck. Emma lingers for a second, a knowing smile tugging at her lips before she disappears back inside.

Then, as if he’s done this a million times, he takes my hand. His fingers are warm against my skin as he gently turns my palm upward, using the other to wipe blood from my palm with a gauze pad. When he’s done, he rests my hand down on his thigh like it belongs there, and I watch him as he tears open the alcohol wipe, his brows furrowed in concentration, like this matters to him more than it probably should.

“This might sting a little,” he says softly.

The wipe brushes over the cut and I wince, instinctively pulling back, but his grip tightens, gentle but firm.

Then he blows on it.

The second his breath hits my skin, I shudder, just slightly.

What the fuck was that, Delaney?

“You okay?” he asks, glancing up at me as he studies my face.

“Yeah,” I manage, barely more than a whisper.

He opens the Band-Aid and presses it across my palm, smoothing the edges with his thumb, lingering for just a second too long.

“Good as new,” he says, his smile soft as his gaze meets mine.

When I realize he’s still holding my hand, I pull it away, tucking my hair behind my ear, suddenly very aware of the heat in my cheeks.

“Thanks,” I say, offering my best, most friendliest smile as I repeat his words, “Good as new.”

He studies me for a second, curiously. Like he’s clocking the shift but not pushing it. I shrug his flannel off my shoulders, careful not to smear blood across it, even though red wine has already claimed the sleeve.