Page 60 of The Risk

Brenna rolls her eyes. “No, no, and no. Obviously my dad is the reason I started watching hockey, but he couldn’t make me love it. The game itself was responsible for that.”

“What was it like growing up with him? He seems like such a hard-ass.”

“He is.”

She doesn’t elaborate, which triggers a rush of wariness.

When she notices my face, she says, “Relax, my childhood was normal. Dad wasn’t abusive or anything like that. We’re just not as close as we used to be. And yeah, he can be a total ass sometimes. His way or the highway, you know? I guess it’s a coach thing.”

I think of my own coach and the expression he gets any time someone mentions Chad Jensen. “Coach Pedersen hates your dad.”

“The feeling is mutual. They have history, though.”

“History,” I echo, shaking my head at the concept. “History is such bullshit. I don’t get why people can’t let things go. Why can’t they leave the past in the past? It’s over—what do we gain from stewing about it?”

“That’s true.” A pensive glimmer crosses her gaze. “I try not to think about the past, ever.”

“Didn’t you just tell me that your past wasn’t dark and twisted?”

“No, I told you my childhood was normal. I never said there was nothing dark and twisted in my past.”

Becausethat’snot intriguing. “Let me guess. You’re not going to tell me about it.”

“Good guess.”

We sip our cognac. I watch her lips, the way the bottom one clings to the rim of her glass before she sets it down. Her tongue peeks out to lick at the drop of moisture left on that lip. I’m obsessed with her lips.

“What are you thinking about right now?” Brenna asks.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Try me.”

“I’m thinking about your lips.”

The lips in question curve slowly. “What about them?”

“I’m wondering what they taste like.”

“Probably like cognac.”

I put down my glass and slide out of the booth.

“Where are you—” She halts when I squeeze my big frame in beside her. “I’m not in the mood, Connelly.”

“Not in the mood for what?” We’re sitting so close that our thighs are touching. I stretch one arm along the top of the booth, rest my other forearm on the table, and angle my body towards hers. “Come on, don’t you want to find out?”

“Find out what?”

“If there’s sparks.”

“Sparks are overrated.”

“I disagree.” I lick my bottom lip, and her gaze tracks the movement of my tongue.

Brenna sighs. “You’re very sexy.”

I grin. “I know.”

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