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2

WYATT

Shot Blocked

I’m sixty percent sure I just fucked myself.

Not because of the kiss. The kiss was… yeah.

I keep one hand on the wheel and glance over at Quinn.

She’s really sitting in my passenger seat. Dark hair still messy from the wind, lips still a little swollen. Real. Very real.

I have to remind myself to look back at the road before I drive us into a palm tree.

My driving’s a little sharper than usual tonight, borderline aggressive, even for LA. I keep having to ease off the gas. The Porsche wants to run, and honestly, so do I.

I drum my fingers on the steering wheel.

“So,” I say, checking my mirror before cutting in front of an eighteen-wheeler, “on a scale from ‘mildly traumatized’ to ‘never speaking to me again’, where are we sitting?”

Quinn snorts, staring out the side window as the smear of orange lights from the 405 drag across her face. "I'm somewhere between wishing I'd kept my mouth shut and reminding you that you promised not to bring any of that up again."

"I distinctly remember refusing to make that promise."

"I was hoping you'd reconsider."

"Still no."

"I think you actually owe me."

"Oh?"

"You're the one who took advantage of a woman in mortal peril."

I grin. "Pretty sure you grabbed my shirt and pulled me in, Brennan. I was being a gentleman."

"Gentleman," she repeats, deadpan. "That's a new one for you."

“Ouch. Brennan, at the rate you’re wounding my heart, I’ll be needing a donor next week.”

She presses her lips together, clearly trying not to smile. It’s cute as hell and also extremely dangerous.

I take the exit toward the quiet, tree-lined streets of Pasadena, the engine humming low beneath us. For a second, the road curves past one of those dark reservoirs, the surface smooth and glassy under the moonlight. My stomach does this uncomfortable little flip, causing my grip to tighten on the wheel.

I blink, force my shoulders to relax, and keep driving like nothing happened.

“What happens now?” she asks.

I lean back in my seat, flashing her a grin. “I was thinking I’d drop you off, then spend the rest of the night trying to figure out how the hell Coach Brennan’s daughter has never been kissed before tonight. Because that shit doesn’t add up.”

Her head snaps toward me. “I told you. We are not talking about that.”

“We’re not?”

“No.”

“Cool,” I say easily. “So tomorrow then.”