Page 55 of The Sweet Spot

I look away from the screen and make sure there isn’t anyone anywhere near my car in our parking garage. “No.” When I lose the nerve I had a minute ago, I pivot instead of telling her about Deacon. “I yelled at Gracie this week. She’s not listening to her body, and she’s never going to get healthy and dance again unless she does.”

Kenzie’s eyes narrow on me, but she goes with it and doesn’t call me out on my half-truth. “Do you want me to call her?”

I shake my head. “Not yet. But if I need you to, I promise I’ll call.”

“You sure nothing else is going on?” She pushes me because she knows there’s more.

That’s the problem with having a group of friends who know each other as well as we all do. We call you on your bullshit. And Kenzie—well, let’s just say having your cousin as one of your best friends makes her uniquely qualified to push when the shit you’re slinging starts to smell. I crinkle my nose with that incredibly disgusting thought and stare through my windshield.

“You have to promise you won’t tell a soul?—”

“I won’t,” she cuts me off, then sits up. “Brynnie... you’re scaring me.”

“Not even the girls,” I warn her.

“Not a soul. I promise.”

She won’t. Kenzie has always had my back.

“I did something crazy last night.” My cheeks heat, and my stomach knots, but I can’t stop the smile from forming anyway.

“And . . .” she pushes.

“And it’s quite possibly the dumbest thing I’ve ever done...” A soft laugh slips past my lips. “I’d be scared if I woke up this morning with even an ounce of regret. But I didn’t. And I guess I’m struggling with that.”

She nods thoughtfully, like she’s taking it all in, even though nothing I just said makes sense. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“I don’t think I can yet,” I admit, and there goes my stomach twisting again.

“Promise to tell me if you’re in trouble, Brynn?”

“Always. But for now, I think I kind of just wanted someone to know.”

She looks at something and groans. “Shit, B. I’ve got to go. Have I told you how much I hate full moons?”

“Love you, Kenz.”

“You too, Brynnie. And B...” She waits while I stare at her. “Take the damn test. Gotta go. Bye.”

I wait until the screen goes black, then whisper, “Bye.”

DEACON

“You gotta relax, brother. It’ll be fine. Isla’s going to be her normal, extroverted self. She’ll talk enough for everyone in the room. Even if Kennedy hates her new mommy, no one will notice.”

“Remind me why the fuck we’re friends?” I grumble and shove the meal I just had delivered into the warming drawer.

“Because if you hadn’t blown me off at O’Malley’s, you wouldn’t have met your banging new wife. Seriously, have you seen the pictures of her modeling her dad’s gym shirt and a green thong in some fashion show? Because brother, seriously, you outkicked your coverage. She’s a fucking knockout.”

“One more word and I’m going to kill you, Rip,” I growl because, yes, I have seen the pictures online from a fashion show for the local lingerie shop a few years ago. And yes, I certainly did outkick my coverage. My wife is unbelievably gorgeous. But the idea that my best friend has seen her ass makes me see fucking red.

“Listen, would you rather I lied and said Kennedy was going to love her? Because she’s not, and you know it. Brynlee is new, and Kennedy doesn’t do new. But your kid is moving in with you in one fucking week, Deacon. And your new wife is going to be what makes the whole machine keep running while you’re traveling with the team. She’ll keep Kennedy on a schedule. She won’t be some nanny you have to worry about leaving my goddaughter with. And if you’re lucky, she might let you touch her boobs when you get home.”

“Jesus, Rip. Seriously?”

“Buddy, you’re the one who married the girl last night. I wasn’t expecting that news this morning. But you went for it, and it’s actually genius. So warm up your food, stop your bitching, and make sure there’s a room for me because I’m stopping by before the season starts, and I’m contractually obligated to kick your team’s fucking ass.” Rip laughs like the idea of beating my team is his new favorite goal in life, and I groan—again.

“You can try, asshole,” I taunt. “See you in a few weeks.”

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