Page 15 of No Shot (The Toronto Tundra #2)

Bri

“Bri, where have you been? I called like two times already!” Oh, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Cami.

Somehow, it feels safer avoiding the whole, Penn and I are entering friendly territory. I don ’ t want to be questioned, and knowing my sister, she may just see right through me. Whether I like it or not, he is dangerously my type, but I refuse to admit that to anyone.

“ Sorry, I was getting groceries, must have had my phone on silent. What ’ s up?”

“ I or we have something to tell you…”

“ We?”

“ Yeah, can we video chat instead?” Um, a little odd, but I hit the video button. I ’ m instantly greeted with Cami ’ s beaming face. A large chest appears behind her, one I ’ m almost certain belongs to Scott.

“ What ’ s going on?” I ask, anxious to get to the bottom of this spontaneous three-way call.

“ You ’ re going to be an aunt!!” Cami shouts out, excitement trilling from her voice.

“ I ’ m already an aunt,” I correct her. Has she been day drinking or something?

“ She means again,” Scott chimes in confidently.

“ We ’ re pregnant!” Cami continues, her infectious smile on full display.

“ Oh my god, are you serious?” I didn ’ t even know they were trying. I figured with the stress of Scott always travelling and Kaia entering her terrible twos phase soon, they ’ d at least wait a few more years.

“ So serious!” She pulls out a piece of paper, a sonogram, clearly, though the image on my screen is a little too fuzzy. Could be a little bean, could be a human child, but adorable nevertheless.

“ I ’ m so happy for you two.” I really am. But underneath it, a ripple of worry gnaws at me—mostly for my sister. Kaia is the most incredible little girl, but she ’ s a handful, and now with Cami pregnant, life ’ s about to get a whole lot harder. “ How far along are you?”

“ Just over eight weeks. It ’ s early, I know. I just couldn ’ t wait to tell you. Explains why I ’ ve been such a puddle of exhaustion, eh?” That or the fact that you carry the domestic workload…

“ That would definitely be a contributing factor.” I smile. “ You ’ re due at the end of the season then?” If my math is to be trusted.

“ Right around playoffs,” Scott says, rubbing a hand over Cami ’ s stomach. “ Going to be our little good-luck charm?”

“ How does that work?” I ask before I can stop myself.

I know Cami, unlike me, tends to roll with things, but logistically.

.. is she supposed to give birth alone? Has she even considered that?

I couldn ’ t imagine having to deal with that.

Of course, I ’ ll drop everything to be there if she needed me, but the thought still makes my chest ache.

“ What do you mean?” Cami ’ s sweet voice pipes up. I swallow the worries threatening to spill out. This is a happy moment. She deserves to enjoy it without me throwing shadows on it.

“ Oh, nothing,” I lie. “ Still just so surprised. Can ’ t wait to meet the littlest Sheppard! I love them already.”

“ They love youuu,” my sister singsongs back into the camera, but my mind just can ’ t shake the pity I feel for her.

****

Just as my sauce comes to a boil, there ’ s a knock, knock, knock, knock-knock. Our secret code. Wait, fuck, no. Not our code, just a code.

UGH, Penn.

I swing open the door, taken aback by the guy standing in front of me.

Sometimes I forget how truly handsome he is.

It ’ s irritating. His deep blonde hair looks tousled like usual.

It ’ s the kind of look I bet guys spend twenty minutes and way too much hair gel to try and re-create, but it seems natural for him.

He ’ s in a black t-shirt and you guessed it, grey sweatpants. He knows what he ’ s doing.

“ Can I… come in?” His questioning tone snaps me back to reality. Shit, I was really just staring at him. I step back, straightening my spine.

“ Uh, yeah, of course.” I move out of the way, letting him into my space.

“ Damn, it smells amazing in here.” He lines his shoes up at my door before wandering into the kitchen.

I watch as he leans over the pot on the stove and dips a pinky in before bringing it into his mouth.

I feel like he has a habit of making himself at home wherever he goes. “ Soup, are you making… soup?”

I shake my head with a chuckle, pushing him over to the sink. “ No, we ’ re making spaghetti squash. Now wash your hands, you savage and make sure you take notes, I ’ m only going to show you everything once.”

“ Aye-aye, captain.” He salutes before cleaning off his hands. When he peeks around the kitchen, he spots my apron, eyes lighting up. In a second, he ’ s pulled it off the hanger and is draping it over his insanely large frame.

“ You look ridiculous,” I snicker.

“ I look amazing.” He raises his eyebrows at me before doing a little twirl. “ This is really my color, don ’ t you think?” He even bats his eyelashes at me while posing. Gotta love a man who ’ s comfortable enough with himself to rock a Barbie pink apron.

“ Can we begin, or do I need to pump you with compliments in order to get anything done?”

“ I mean, compliments help, but I ’ m ready when you are.” Of course they do.

Walking over to the stove, I assess my progress so far.

“ Alright, so, I just ended up buying this really simple pasta sauce. It ’ s mostly just tomato and spices.

” I show him the empty jar, and he types something into his phone.

Hmm, maybe he ’ ll actually pay attention and learn something.

“ I find it plain, so I roasted onion, garlic, and peppers in the oven first. Once those were ready, I blended them with the sauce.” Grabbing my spoon, I dip it in to give him another taste.

He leans in over my shoulder, letting his cologne fill my space, and opens his mouth for me. I tip the spoonful in, and his eyes close with a groan. Dropping my hand down, I watch the enjoyment spread across his face. “ So fucking good.”

He grabs the spoon from me before flipping it over and sucking it clean. Hot .

I blink, trying to get a hold of myself. “ Uh, good, I ’ m glad. So, next is the squash.”

“ Squash,” he repeats, typing into his phone again.

“ Yeah, I cut them in half, sprayed a little olive oil overtop, sprinkled some salt, and that ’ s about it. Popped them in the oven at four hundred degrees, and it only takes about ten minutes for them to cook.”

He frantically types, and I ’ m pleasantly surprised by his commitment. “ Four hundred, ten minutes. Got it.”

“ We ’ ve got a few minutes left before they ’ re ready, so we can start the rest of the prep work.” I pull out my grater and a block of dairy-free cheddar. “ Can you work on this for me? We can use the whole thing.”

“ Love the trust in me. I think I can, in fact, manage to shred a pile of cheese.”

“ We ’ ll see,” I tease. Turning back to the stove, I pop the tofu crumbles into the pot for protein, trying to shield it from Penn ’ s view.

Something tells me he ’ s a steak and potatoes kinda guy, and I want to blow his mind with this one, but I doubt he ’ ll come willingly.

I feel like a mom disguising vegetables, but whatever.

Tofu makes this entire recipe that much better, he ’ ll see.

“ Mother-fu—!” Penn ’ s voice rings out as he frantically wags his hand. What the hell?

I run over, grabbing his hand to examine what I ’ m expecting to be some pretty extensive damage. I mean, the guy literally screamed.

“ What happened?” I ask, the urgency and concern in my voice taking me by surprise.

“ I grated my flesh!” I ’ ve seen this guy get absolutely crushed into the boards and keep playing, no issue. There is no way he is this much of a baby.

“ You ’ re fine, Penn.”

“ Speak for yourself!” he exclaims, raising his finger to show me the slightest red scratch mark forming. “ I ’ m wounded! I ’ m practically bleeding out.”

I roll my eyes at the drama queen in front of me, but I grab a paper towel and my first-aid kit regardless. It takes all of two seconds to tend to his ‘ wound ’ , but Penn seems happy with the care he ’ s getting.

“ Better?” I ask as I smooth the band-aid over his basically non-existent gash.

“ Much,” he replies with a grateful smile.

“ Good news is, I don ’ t think we ’ ll have to amputate.” I deadpan.

“ Har har har, laugh at my pain. What a nice teacher you are…”

“ I ’ m not your teacher.”

“ What are you doing right now with the meal-prepping?”

I think for a moment, choosing my words carefully. “ Showing you how to cook, it ’ s different.”

“ Fine, my sexy food tutor.” He smiles. “ Yeah, I like that better anyway. Tutor and student, I wonder what will happen…” The smirk he gives me lights my insides on fire as I stare at him.

“ Are you always such a flirt?”

“ Usually,” he replies with a confident tone. “ I ’ m just messing around, Soup. You ’ re too good for me anyway.”

Get a grip, Bri. He ’ s bad news, and you know it. Do not get sucked in, I repeat, do not get sucked in. Just like that, he ’ s back to work on the cheese.

Once we ’ ve finished shredding up all the squash, adding the sauce and cheese, and assembling them in all the Tupperware containers I own, Penn and I high-five. He ’ s still got a lot to learn, but at least he ’ s trying.

“ This is a lot of food,” Penn notes.

“ These.” I slide five of the eight containers in his direction. “ Are for you.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “ Really?”

“ You paid for my entire cart of groceries, Penn.”

“ That was because I ate all of your food, I didn ’ t mean for this—”

“ I insist. Just bring back my containers when you ’ re done, ‘ kay?” He pumps his fist in the air before dive-bombing me into a hug. I squeeze his side too. He ’ s kind of like a puppy. High-energy, endlessly a trouble-maker, but cute…

“ Uh-oh.”

“ What?”

“ I ’ m growing on you, I can see it. You haven ’ t insulted me in the last thirty minutes.”

I roll my eyes.

I refuse to let Penn Brooks grow on me.