Page 24 of No Shot (The Toronto Tundra #2)

Dinner arrives with the grocery delivery.

Just as I start to unpack everything, the smells wafting through my apartment seem to coax Bri out.

I can ’ t help but smile, seeing her in my clothes.

They drown her, obviously, and it ’ s cute as hell.

She looks a million times better, too, with color returning to her cheeks and her eyes looking much more lively than they did an hour ago.

“ Hungry?” I ask her, lifting the lid off the veggie samosas.

“ I should go.” Her head hangs low as she walks toward the door. “ You ’ ve been so… nice. I can ’ t believe you saw all that. I ’ m so embarrassed.” Huh, her honesty is refreshing. I like her sharing exactly what she ’ s feeling. Even if the embarrassment ’ s not justified.

“ Just being a good neighbor, ya know?” Good neighbor my ass. I would have done anything to get her to stop crying.

“ Well, thanks.” She forces a smile, but it doesn ’ t feel genuine. Her hands grip her elbows, her shoulders pulled in like she ’ s trying to make herself smaller. She turns toward the door, and a knot tightens in my stomach. I ’ m not ready for her to leave.

“ Wait!” I call out. “ Don ’ t you want these?” I hold up the two boxes of actual Pop-Tarts. A quick Google told me that the brown sugar and strawberry ones are dairy-free. Trust me, they look a hell of a lot better than the unfrosted, thick wannabe Pop-Tart she was crying over.

You ’ d think I just handed her a suitcase full of cash. Her eyes light up, and—get this—she squeals, actually squeals, before running over.

I lift the boxes over my head, just out of reach. Her brows knit together, those little anger lines on her forehead—the ones I ’ ve gotten so used to seeing—returning.

“ After dinner,” I insist.

“ What ’ s that?” She asks, eyeing the rest of the stuff in the bag. I move like a ninja, trying to hide the pack of nightlights from view.

“ Go sit down, nosey.” She reluctantly does, and the pang that ’ s been plaguing my stomach starts to ease.

The way she ’ s devouring her tofu Tikka Masala, I ’ d bet she hasn ’ t had a lick of food all day. We sit in silence, enjoying dinner, but she ’ s gotten enough sustenance, and I need to get to the bottom of this.

“ What happened, Soup?” I try to ask as casually as possible.

“ I ’ m nervous,” she replies quietly.

“ Because of school?” She nods.

“ My exam ’ s tomorrow.”

“ You ’ re so smart, no reason to be nervous.”

“ Easy for you to say, you deal with high pressure all the time. Us mere mortals struggle with that kind of thing.”

“ First of all, thank you for comparing me to some sort of demi-god. I always knew I was a little Herculean.” She rolls her eyes. “ Second, a little exam? Why would that be so high pressure?”

“ It ’ s worth a lot of my grade. I can ’ t mess it up.

It ’ ll put me behind if I do, and then that snowballs, and I ’ ll struggle to recover the whole semester.

I just—” Her breathing quickens, panic creeping back across her face.

Her whole demeanor shifts in an instant—one misstep, and she slips back into a state of unease.

“ Does it happen a lot?”

“ What? Me burning Pop-Tarts?” She ’ s trying to avoid the subject, and I don ’ t blame her.

But I want answers. It was so unexpected.

“ You getting overwhelmed about school…”

She looks out the window and shrugs. It ’ s like watching a crab slowly retreating into its shell—she ’ s pulling away, I can feel it.

Little snippets—that ’ s all I ever get from her.

Push too hard, and she shuts down. Give her too much space, and she ’ ll never open up.

Like the world ’ s most complicated vault.

One of these days, I ’ ll crack the code.

Can ’ t wait.

“ Let ’ s watch something.” I tap her leg, trying to pull her out of the haze she was idling in.

“ No, I should—”

“ I ’ ll make the Pop-Tarts, you pick the movie?

” I hold my breath, hoping she ’ ll take the bait.

She heads over to the TV, and I internally pump my fists in the air.

Got her. Damn, who knew little pastries could be such helpful bargaining chips?

When I return with a variety of snacks—because every respectable human knows you need salty, sweet, and sour options—I find her nuzzled into the corner of the couch.

I set the tray of goodies on the coffee table in front of us, and take the seat next to her. Looks like she ’ s navigated to the Disney movies section. Sick.

“ This what we ’ re watching?”

I never seen her face blush before, but her cheeks flush the brightest pink as she curls further into the couch, scrolling past the movie.

“ Noo, go back!” I protest.

She looks over at me skeptically. Surveying whether I ’ m messing with her. “ You want to watch Moana?”

“ Fuck yeah, I do.” A win all around, really. You can never beat a Disney movie. I grab a handful of popcorn, tossing it into my mouth before leaning back on the couch.

“ Really?” Her tone has a hint of hope in it, and it ’ s making me feel goey and shit.

“ She sailed the whole ocean BY HERSELF, Bri. No one wanted her to do it, but she forged her own path.”

“ She ’ s my favorite Disney Princess,” she reluctantly shares.

“ Yeah, 'cus she ’ s a badass. That pig is cute as fuck too—”

She smiles—this time, a full, radiant smile—and it ’ s like sunlight breaking through in the dead of winter. Warm, peaceful, and effortlessly bright.

“ Penn?” God, I love it when she says my name like that. Almost as much as I love hearing her scream it.

“ Yeah?” I turn to her, surprised to see her full attention on me.

She looks like a Disney princess—big, round eyes designed to draw you in, full pink cheeks that make her seem almost unreal, like she stepped right out of a storybook.

She ’ s so damn beautiful, it catches me offguard everytime I look at her.

Her long lashes flutter closed as she leans forward. Is she about to? I barely have time to process before my heart starts galloping. My hand comes up to brace her jaw, pulling her closer toward me.

Our lips connect, and it feels like everything falls into place—it ’ s gentle, natural, sweet. I want to stay in this moment, feeling her soft lips pressed against me. Her smell surrounding me, feeling her steady pulse under my palm.

We pull apart, just staring at each other for a few seconds.

I stroke her jaw, unable to grasp my head around how this happened.

“ It ’ s not supposed to feel like this,” I whisper in disbelief. I can ’ t stop myself from leaning in once more, careful not to disrupt the delicacy of the moment.

I ’ ve never kissed someone without it leading to something more, but this, this in and of itself, is a complete moment. She turns back to the TV, pressing play, and I stay sitting here, dumbfounded, trying to make sense of the warmth spreading through my body.

When she leans against my shoulder, my stomach erupts with nervous jitters, and I know I ’ m so screwed.