Page 25 of Winning Brynn

"What?" My gaze flies back to the window, but I've already been caught.

"You're staring."

"I was just wondering if you're wearing the hat to cover your bald patches."

He actually has great hair. Dark, thick, and just the right length for a woman to run her fingers through while his head is between her thighs. But I'm having fun giving him a complex about it. Who ever said gaslighting isn't a healthy form of entertainment?

But he just rolls his eyes. Apparently, two days in my company is enough for him to get used to my incessant jibing.

It's a shame, really.

Not getting a reaction really sucks the fun out of things.

Snatching the hat off his head, I set it on my own instead. His scent assaults me instantly, woodsy and fresh, flooding me with nostalgia of hiking the forest trails in the Olympic mountains with my brother every weekend before life became too busy. How it manages to make me feel both homesick and horny, I'll never understand.

"Hey." He scowls. "That's mine."

"Finders keepers."

Looking down at my phone to block out his glare, I upload a random photo from my camera roll to my Instagram stories. It's one of me and Isabella standing on a beach in Bali, scantily clad in bikinis with our arms reaching to the sky.

"What are you doing? Is Salem in that picture?" The car swerves as Leo tries to catch a look at my phone.

"Eyes on the road, Daddio."

"Brynn, seriously, if you just uploaded a photo of my daughter onto the internet, I'll—"

"First of all, I would never post a picture of Salem without your permission. It was a photo of me and a friend in Bali, because it’s hard as hell to make content when you’re looking after a one-year-old," I interrupt. "And second, you shouldn't snoop at someone's phone. It's rude, and you almost just killed us."

"Okay, fine." He blows out a breath of relief. "I just don't want you posting photos of my baby girl just to get crout or whatever."

"Crout?" I frown in confusion. "Like sauerkraut? I don't have a sponsorship deal with any fermented food companies, if that's what you're worried about. Are you allergic or something?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" His hands flex on the steering wheel as he gives me a side-eye cold enough to spark an ice age. "I meant Instagram followers and shit."

I laugh as understanding dawns on me. "I think the word you're looking for is 'clout,' my guy."

"Whatever." I'm awarded yet another scowl, his lips turning sharp.

"Jesus, it's like you were conceived in the baby boom."

"I'm twenty-nine," he grits out. "It's not my fault you're a fucking teenager."

"I'm twenty-four, actually. Don't get pissy just because I was born in this millennium."

"And yet, you have the maturity level of a pre-pubescent."

"Okay, boomer."

The dude looks like he's about to combust. And here I was thinking he'd learned not to take the bait. God, the man is so easy.

Rubbing his hand over his face, he pulls the car into the underground parking garage of the apartment complex. He doesn't say a word as he climbs out, taking Salem from her car seat and holding her to his chest to shield her from the cold. He doesn't even check that I'm out of the car before he locks it.

Evidently, his age is a soft spot.

Tension crackles between us as we ride the elevator up to his floor in total silence. Salem, though, is none the wiser. Cradled in her father's arms, she blows bubbles from between her bowed lips, laughing hysterically every time one pops.

The sound is musical.

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