Page 52 of Worth the Shot

“Exactly!”

Emma is already crossing the room before I can get another word out, pulling me into a quick hug that lingers just a second longer than usual. “You’re late,” she murmurs, but there’s no bite to it.

“I’m fashionably delayed,” I say into her shoulder.

She pulls back, giving me a once-over like she’s checking for damage. “Mm. I’ll allow it.”

Shayne pushes up from the couch, clapping Brennan on the shoulder as he passes him. “You survive the drive?”

“Barely,” Brennan says easily, but his hand finds the small of my back for half a second as he moves past me. Quick. Casual. Like it didn’t happen.

It absolutely happened.

Jo appears at my side. “Interesting to see you two arrived together,” she mutters under her breath, eyes flicking between me and Brennan.

“Do you ever relax?” I ask her.

“Not when there’s this much material.”

“Go away.”

“Not a chance,” she says, handing me a glass of wine.

Miles slides a drink across the counter toward Brennan. “Alright, now that everyone’s here, we can officially start pretending this is a normal, functional group.”

“That ship sailed years ago,” Emma says, grabbing a glass.

“Speak for yourself,” Wes adds. “I’m thriving.”

“You got slapped by a toddler five seconds ago,” Shayne points out.

“Unprovoked.”

“Highly provoked,” Emma corrects.

I shake my head, leaning back against the counter, letting the noise settle around me. The arguing, the laughter, the way no one really needs to try that hard to be here.

Brennan glances at me from across the kitchen, something quieter in his expression than what he gives the rest of the room.

I don’t look away this time.

A smirk spreads across his face as he lifts his beer, and something warm settles low in my stomach, enough to make me shift my weight and pretend I’m unaffected.

Dangerous.

We finally settle around the long, rectangular dining table, everyone talking over each other as we find our seats. Miles loves to cook, and tonight’s spread looks like it belongs on a cooking show.

Everything’s served family style, but there’s intention behind it. A whole roasted chicken sits in the center, golden and crisp, surrounded by vegetables cut clean and even. There’s a bowl of pasta coated in a rich, garlicky sauce, fresh bread still warm, butter already softened. It all feels elegant without trying too hard.

Miles lingers for a second, hands resting on the back of his chair like he’s not sure where to go now that it’s all done.

“Alright, dig in,” he says, almost like he doesn’t want to make a thing out of it.

Emma is already reaching for the chicken. “This looks amazing.”

He shrugs, a little smile pulling at his mouth. “It’s nothing crazy.”

“It kinda is,” Wes says, mouth already full as he loads his plate. “You made fwee diffwent sides.”