Chapter 8
VINCENT
Forget pub and parties. The only place I wanted to be at that time was on the sofa, parked in front of a flat-screen TV with a cold drink in hand and a bowl of popcorn in my lap.
I relaxed into my seat, my shoulders loosening at the familiar intro music. My phone was on silent, and—
“What are you watching?”
I glanced over and nearly choked on a kernel of popcorn.
Brooklyn had been holed up in her bedroom all evening.
I hadn’t expected to see her again until the next morning, but there she was, waltzing into the living room and wearing the most indecent piece of clothing possible: an oversized football shirt.
Nothing else. No shoes, no makeup, just a Blackcastle shirt that skimmed the bottoms of her thighs and showed off miles of bare, tanned skin.
Her hair spilled over her shoulders in glossy golden waves, and she looked so fucking good I had to physically restrain my jaw from dropping.
The kernel went down the wrong pipe. I erupted into a fit of coughs and grabbed my drink, my eyes watering. I gulped it down while Brooklyn sank down next to me on the sofa with a deceptively innocent smile.
“Are you okay?” She patted me on the back. “Do you need CPR?”
That sneaky little minx. We were one day into our bet, and she’d already fired the first shot.
Here’s a secret: for most guys, especially athletes, an oversized shirt was the hottest thing a woman could wear. Forget lingerie and heels. Seeing a member of the opposite sex in our favorite club’s gear was pure kryptonite.
Brooklyn hung out with footballers enough to know that. She was playing to my weakness, but I’d be damned if I lost to a piece of athletic wear.
“I’m fine.” I got my coughing under control. “To answer your question, I’m watching The Great British Bake Off.”
I purposely didn’t look at her.
I can do this. I saw people in shirts every day. She was no different.
But just in case, I stared straight ahead and pictured Adil’s hairy legs poking out from beneath her top instead.
“Again? Do you watch anything else?” Brooklyn eyed the screen with dubious interest. “You’re obsessed with this show.”
“Because it’s the greatest show ever made.” I couldn’t believe that was even a question. “Don’t tell me you’ve never experienced the brilliance that’s Bake Off.”
“I’ve watched a few clips. It’s fine.”
I whipped my head around to gape at her. “It’s fine? You think the show is just fine? What’s wrong with you?”
Forget visions of Adil. Her blasphemy effectively killed the power of her shirt.
“Nothing is wrong with me. Believe it or not, people can have different tastes in television.”
“Sure, if you’re talking about literally anything else. But Bake Off is an institution. It’s universally beloved.”
“Clearly not.”
I reached over and placed the back of my hand on her forehead. It was distressingly cool. “No fever, which means you’re not sick and delirious. You just have bad taste.” I dropped my hand. “I’m so sorry. That condition is incurable.”
Brooklyn snorted. “You’re overreacting. I didn’t say I hated it. I said it’s fine, which is the equivalent of giving it a C. That’s a passing grade.”
“It deserves more than a C.” My indignation rose by the minute. “You can’t get the full experience from a few clips. Watch this episode with me. If you still don’t love it by the end, I’ll let it go.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude on your personal time.”
“No, you—” I stopped short. Wait a minute.
Brooklyn stared back at me, the picture of innocence, but the gleam in her eyes gave her away.
Oh, she was good. She’d baited me into committing to an hour of her company when I was at my weakest (i.e.
relaxed, at home, and watching Bake Off while she wore that damn outfit like a weapon).
I couldn’t withdraw my invitation without admitting my weakness, so I gritted my teeth and reassured her that she wouldn’t be intruding at all.
Our joint viewing started off strong. Brooklyn fell silent, and I was sucked into the drama of Pastry Week. It was my favorite week.
Then, about ten minutes in, Brooklyn “casually” stretched her legs. The shirt rode up on her thigh, revealing another sliver of skin.
The contestants onscreen blurred. My jaw clenched, and I stared harder at the TV, willing my peripheral vision to die for the next fifty minutes or so.
Old socks. Smelly boots. Bloody sores.
I focused on mental images of the least sexy things I could think of.
My pride was at stake here. I could not give in this soon, no matter how nice she smelled or how soft her skin looked. One kiss wasn’t worth the lifetime of gloating she’d lord over me if I lost.
Brooklyn yawned and stretched her arms over her head. Her sleeve grazed my arm, and a flicker of electricity darted over my skin.
I tensed.
Screw this. It was time to fight back.
I followed her lead and pretended to yawn. I leaned back, lazily stretching my arms and draping one over the back of the couch. The move was a classic for a reason—it worked.
My fingertips brushed the curve of her shoulder. I was close enough to feel the heat of her body, but that meant the reverse was also true.
I shifted in my seat. My thigh touched hers, and I had to suppress a smile when she stiffened.
That’s right. Two can play at this game.
From that point on, it was a choreography of deliberate-disguised-as-unintentional attacks.
Brooklyn leaned into my embrace; I brought my arm fully around her shoulders.
She reached across me for popcorn, bringing her face perilously close to mine. From this distance, I could count each freckle scattered across her nose and cheeks and feel the soft warmth of her breath against my skin.
I turned my head, daring her to close the gap between us.
She didn’t, and I didn’t, but the possibility was there, humming in the background.
Neither of us spoke. Our communication was broadcast through our actions, and for the first time since I got hooked on Bake Off, I was only half paying attention to the weekly challenge.
The judges’ commentary drowned out the heavy thumps of my heart.
This entire bet was a catch-22—I was torturing myself as much as I was her with every “accidental” touch and glance.
But that was what made it fun, and seduction attempts aside, this felt nice—us sitting on the couch, watching my comfort show together.
I wasn’t tempted to prove myself by filling the silence with funny stories or interesting tidbits. I could just…be.
By the time the showstoppers were judged and the episode wrapped, Brooklyn and I were snuggled closer than a real couple, but I refused to admit defeat and pull away first. Apparently, she felt the same way, so we were stuck in a tangle of limbs on the couch.
“So? What do you think?” I made a conscious effort not to inhale too deeply. Her head was tucked beneath my chin, and I was convinced she’d added some secret aphrodisiacs to her shampoo. No hair product should smell that good. “Did you change your mind about the show being just fine?”
Conversation was good. Conversation distracted me from how close her hand was to a certain private part—not enough to cross a line, but enough that I knew she was doing it on purpose. Well, I wasn’t falling for it. Not today.
“It’s better than I expected,” she admitted. “But I’m still not convinced it’s as great as you say it is.”
My mouth parted. “Unbelievable.” How could she say that after Pastry Week? It was famously one of the best weeks! “I was right when I said your bad taste is incurable.”
“This coming from a guy who drinks protein shakes that taste like old gym socks.”
“How—have you been stealing my shakes?”
“I took a tiny sip of one because I was curious.” Brooklyn pinched her thumb and forefinger together to indicate how small her infraction was. “I’m a nutritionist. I couldn’t help it. But don’t worry, I learned my lesson because it was the most disgusting drink I’ve ever had.”
“Your job isn’t an excuse for committing an offense.”
She huffed out a laugh. “You’re such a fucking drama queen. No wonder you love reality TV.”
“That’s probably true,” I acknowledged. I loved the messiness of reality TV. Sure, most of it was scripted, but some of it wasn’t. It made me feel better, knowing I wasn’t the only one who had to deal with weird people and fucked-up situations.
“Have you ever tried baking some of the stuff from the show?” Brooklyn asked.
“Once. I almost burned down my kitchen.”
She lifted her head to stare at me. “You’re joking.”
“I swear. Firefighters came and everything. It was humiliating. My craving for blueberry pancakes made me the butt of my neighborhood’s jokes for weeks.” I grimaced. “Anyway, I never tried to bake again.”
She burst into a fresh bout of laughter. “Oh, I would’ve paid good money to see that. Please tell me there are pictures.”
“I’m glad my suffering amuses you.” But my mouth curved with reluctance. It was impossible to hear her laugh without wanting to smile too.
We were still wrapped around each other, but our stubborn defiance had softened into something that felt almost normal.
We had to leave the living room eventually, but the moment felt too good for me to let go yet.
“What were you really working on yesterday?” I asked.
Brooklyn raised a quizzical brow.
“In the kitchen, before I came in,” I clarified. “No one gets that excited about creating meal plans.”
“Oh. That.” Her smile faded. A second later, she disentangled herself from me and scooted over on the sofa. Cool air rushed in to fill her absence. It was a technical win for me in our silent battle, but I mourned her warmth too much to celebrate.
I dropped my arms, resisting the urge to draw her back into my embrace.
“If I tell you, you can’t laugh,” she said.
I nodded, my curiosity piqued. Besides, laughter was the last thing on my mind when she looked so unsure. The sight tugged at my chest harder than it should.