Page 9 of Worth the Shot

“Sorry about your flannel,” I add, holding it out to him. “I’ll replace it.”

He takes it from me, glancing at the stain like it’s barely worth noticing. Then he laughs it off like it’s nothing.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “It’s just a flannel.”

And something about the way he says it, like things are replaceable and accidents don’t ruin everything—it settles somewhere deep in me.

Just a flannel.

Just a moment.

But somehow, it doesn’t feel like just anything at all.

He drapes the flannel over the railing of the deck beside him and leans against it. The bonfire crackles in the yard, laughter spilling from a group of guys arguing about something that sounds suspiciously like fantasy football. The conversations around us fade in and out, everyone busying themselves, but Brennan doesn’t move. So neither do I.

“So, does this happen often?” he asks, nodding toward my hand.

“What? Me injuring myself?” I huff a quiet laugh. “Only when I’m trying to make a good first impression, apparently.”

He smiles, slow and easy. “You’re doing great so far.”

I roll my eyes, but the corner of my mouth betrays me. I hate that my body has apparently decided joy is an option again after less than an hour with this man.

We stay like that for a while, talking about nothing and everything. It’s easy in a way that surprises me. Effortless.

We talk about my job at the hospital and his hometown outside Toronto. How he loves fishing with his dad and cooking with his mom. How I love Taylor Swift and baking, despite my best efforts to deny both. That he hates olives, which feels like an aggressively strong opinion for someone who otherwise seems unbothered by everything.

“So what’s your favorite thing to bake?” he asks, arms crossed, a sly grin on his face.

“I will not be baking for you. Or anyone, for that matter,” I inform him before adding, “But if you must know, blueberry muffins.”

“Good to know,” he says, nodding. “Now I know what to request when I wear you down.”

I let out a short laugh. “That’s adorable. You think there’s a version of this where I bake for you?”

“I know there is.” He doesn’t hesitate. “This attitude you’ve got feels dangerous, but I think it’s mostly decorative.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Decorative?”

“Yeah. Decorative. Intimidating in theory, but not in practice.”

“I could ruin your life with one well-timed text.”

“That sounds an awful lot like you asking for my number.” His grin widens. “See? Flirting.”

“That was definitely not me flirting with you. And I do not want your number.”

“Still counts.”

I shake my head, fighting a smile that’s trying to happen without permission. “You’re weirdly confident for someone who voluntarily hates olives.”

“I’ve got range.”

“No, you’ve got bad opinions.”

He laughs, warm and easy. “Make me muffins and I’ll reconsider the olives.”

“I’d rather file taxes in person.”