Page 17 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

I glance at him again. Not for long, but enough to catch that same calm, interested expression he’s had since he first slid into the car, like nothing I’ve done tonight has put him off. “Why?”

Brent blinks. “Why what?”

“Why the hell are you giving me the time of day?”

He says nothing.

So I push on. “I’ve been a dick. Snapped at you. Ignored you. I’m grumpy. Moody. Complicated. And tonight—” My jaw tightens. “Tonight I’ve been fucking awful. So why?”

The car hums beneath us. Streetlights flash by in slow, golden intervals. Outside, everything’s still. Quiet. Inside, I’m coiled so tightly I feel like I could snap. Then I glance his way again.

He looks at me like I’m not scaring him. Like I’m not pushing him away. Like none of what I’ve said has put so much as a dent in his certainty. And that smile’s still there. Steady. Warm. No rush. No bullshit.

He shifts slightly in his seat, turns more towards me.

His voice is low—not pitying, not soft, just real.

“Because you showed up,” he says. “Because you lead. Because you care about your teammates even when they’re a drunken mess.

Because you hauled one of them across a car park and into his house without complaint and, despite what you think, without real judgement.

Because you didn’t throw me under the bus for helping.

Because you take the weight even when it’s too heavy. ”

My throat closes.

He keeps going. “And yeah, you’re grumpy. And guarded. And you’ve got moods like weather fronts. But you also stayed. You sat with me. You invited me. And you didn’t have to.”

He pauses before saying, “I like people who don’t pretend. And I think you’re not pretending. Even when you’re being a bit of a prick.”

I bark out a laugh that feels like a release valve cracking open.

Then it hits me again—this bone-deep ache, because I don’t see myself the way he does.

I don’t feel like someone worth the effort.

I feel like a man who’s constantly trying not to drown in the mess of his own overthinking.

Who keeps people out because letting them in means getting hurt. Again.

But Brent? He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pull away. He just stays—with me, in this space that I don’t let many people into—and that’s what wrecks me most of all.

The quiet stretches, thick between us, until the road bends towards home and my building comes into view. I pull up out front, the engine humming low as the car idles, and suddenly it hits me. I brought him here. Home. With me.

And I’ve got no fucking clue what I’m meant to do next.

Brent unclicks his seatbelt like it’s no big deal, like this is just what we do.

My pulse is in my throat.

Seriously, what the fuck am I supposed to do with him now?

I know what I want to do. Or rather, what I want him to do to me. Which— Jesus —isn’t helping matters. I can barely think. My brain’s stopped making useful thoughts and instead loops through vague flashes of skin, of that lip ring grazing across my neck, of his mouth opening against mine?—

Get a grip.

But when I glance over at him, he’s already out of the car, calm as anything.

Cool air floods in when I open my door, and I scan the street automatically.

My eyes do a sweep: down the road, across the opposite pavement, into the gaps between the buildings.

No flashes. No shadows. Just the low hum of quiet streets and an occasional parked scooter.

Good. No press. Not tonight.

I nod towards the entrance. “Come on.”

He falls in beside me, hands in his pockets like we’re just two mates walking home after the pub. There’s no tension, no awkwardness, just Brent—unshakably Brent.

At the front door, I fumble with my keys for half a second longer than necessary. My fingers feel clumsy. Everything feels a little too loud in my chest.

He leans in slightly, voice low. “Lead the way, Captain.”

The way that word lands in my gut could be classified as an international incident. The door opens with a push and a soft creak, and we step into the entryway, our footsteps echoing lightly against the quiet.

Up the stairs to the second floor is my flat. I get the door open, and then I freeze. Because now we’re here. Inside. Together. Just him and me and whatever the fuck is about to happen.

I turn to say something, maybe crack a joke, maybe tell him the bathroom’s down the hall or that I’ve got nothing but protein bars and cold pizza in the fridge.

But I don’t get the chance, because he’s already moved.

He pushes the door shut behind us, then steps into my space, calm and sure, and suddenly I’m the one against the door, his body pinning me there, heat radiating between us like a living thing.

His hand lands on my chest—firm, grounding, warm. His gaze meets mine, and there’s no teasing in it now. No smugness. Just clarity. Confidence and intention. “I’ve got you,” he says, voice low and firm and so fucking certain it steals the air from my lungs.

I suck in a breath, and my whole body locks up. His hand slides lower, fingers brushing over the front of my jeans, and I swear to God, I almost fucking come. Just from that. From him. From the weight of his hand and the promise in his voice.

“I know exactly what you need,” he whispers.

And holy crap on a cracker, he does. Somehow, this man I barely know—who’s patient and cocky and kind and watching me like I’m something worth handling with care—has already read me like a book.

And fuck me, I want him to turn every page.