Page 36 of Worth the Shot

For a second, I forget how to breathe.

She keeps mixing like she didn’t just level me with two words, but I catch the way her mouth fights a smile. The way the tips of her ears turn pink. She’s nervous too. That realization hits me low and deep.

I stand and move around the island before I can think better of it. Slow enough to give her time to stop me.

She doesn’t.

I reach up and brush my thumb across her cheek, wiping away the streak of flour there. Her eyes lift to mine, wide and searching, and the whole room goes still.

“Missed a spot,” I say, voice rougher than I intended.

She swallows. “Tragic.”

Her arm moves across the counter like she’s reaching for me. I swallow hard, bracing myself for whatever might come next, when she trips forward instead.

Her elbow catches the bowl of batter clean off the counter.

It hits the floor with a violent splat. Blueberry batter explodes everywhere. Cabinets. Tile. My jeans. Her bare legs. We both freeze, staring at the destruction. Then Delaney closes her eyes and mutters, “Honestly, this feels more on brand for me.”

I laugh so hard I have to brace a hand on the counter.

She points at me, horrified. “Don’t you dare enjoy this.”

“I’m trying not to,” I say through another laugh. “But watching you nearly seduce me straight into a baking-related disaster is a lot to process.”

Her mouth falls open. “I was not seducing you.”

“You were absolutely reaching for me.”

“I was reaching for the vanilla.” She looks at the bottle two feet behind me, then back at the batter coating half the kitchen. “Which somehow feels worse.”

I grin and grab a towel. “Come on, trouble. Let’s clean up your crime scene.”

We clean up the mess and eventually settle onto her couch, sleep practically swallowing her whole, though she insists she’s not tired. I catch her staring across the room at the puck I gave her earlier, sitting on the table.

“I’ve never had a signed puck before,” she says. “I’m not sure how to act. Do I buy some kind of stand for it?”

Cue the stupid grin I can’t seem to control around her.

“They’re pretty special. Hard to come by, so you better hang onto it. Might be worth a few bucks someday,” I say, mostly to see what she’ll do with that.

“And get rid of the puck personally given to me by one of my favorite players?” Her eyes snap to mine. “No way. Not enough money in the world.”

There’s that softness again at the end of it, and I still don’t know what to do with how much it gets to me. It feels different now. Less guarded. Like she’s finally starting to believe she doesn’t have to hide every real thing behind a joke when it comes to me.

“Can I ask you something?” I turn toward her, wanting her full attention before I continue.

“Hit me.”

I’m not sure why I choose this moment. Maybe because it’s quiet. Maybe because she’s tired enough to be honest. Maybe because I’m tired of wondering.

“How come you never stopped me from calling you Laney? I wouldn’t have if I’d known.”

Shayne told me last week, when her name came up. I said Laney, and he froze. Turned around, looked me dead in the eye, and asked if she’d really been letting me call her that. Then he told me her dad was the only one who ever called her that. Since she was little. Never Delaney, always Laney. And after he passed, she couldn’t stand hearing it. So everyone stopped. He said it wasn’t like her not to correct me the first time. So now it feels like I crossed some sacred line without knowing it. Like I picked up something fragile with no idea how easily it could break.

It feels like hours before she answers, but it’s barely five seconds.

“That’s a great question,” she says, turning onto her side to face me, matching the way I’m lying.