Page 24 of The Defender

I can do this.I saw people in shirts every day. She was no different.

But just in case, I stared straight ahead and pictured Adil’s hairy legs poking out from beneath her top instead.

“Again? Do you watch anything else?” Brooklyn eyed the screen with dubious interest. “You’re obsessed with this show.”

“Because it’s the greatest show ever made.” I couldn’t believe that was even a question. “Don’t tell me you’ve never experienced the brilliance that’sBake Off.”

“I’ve watched a few clips. It’s fine.”

I whipped my head around to gape at her. “It’sfine? You think the show is justfine? What’s wrong with you?”

Forget visions of Adil. Her blasphemy effectively killed the power of her shirt.

“Nothing is wrong with me. Believe it or not, peoplecanhave different tastes in television.”

“Sure, if you’re talking about literally anything else. But Bake Off is an institution. It’s universally beloved.”

“Clearly not.”

I reached over and placed the back of my hand on her forehead. It was distressingly cool. “No fever, which means you’re not sick and delirious. You just have bad taste.” I dropped my hand. “I’m so sorry. That condition is incurable.”

Brooklyn snorted. “You’re overreacting. I didn’t say I hated it. I said it’s fine, which is the equivalent of giving it a C. That’s a passing grade.”

“It deserves more than a C.” My indignation rose by the minute. “You can’t get the full experience from a few clips. Watch this episode with me. If you still don’t love it by the end, I’ll let it go.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude on your personal time.”

“No, you—” I stopped short.Wait a minute.

Brooklyn stared back at me, the picture of innocence, but the gleam in her eyes gave her away.

Oh, she was good. She’d baited me into committing to an hour of her company when I was at my weakest (i.e. relaxed, at home, and watching Bake Off while she wore that damn outfit like a weapon). I couldn’t withdraw my invitation without admitting my weakness, so I gritted my teeth and reassured her that she wouldn’t be intrudingat all.

Our joint viewing started off strong. Brooklyn fell silent, and I was sucked into the drama of Pastry Week. It was my favorite week.

Then, about ten minutes in, Brooklyn “casually” stretched her legs. The shirt rode up on her thigh, revealing another sliver of skin.

The contestants onscreen blurred. My jaw clenched, and I stared harder at the TV, willing my peripheral vision to die for the next fifty minutes or so.

Old socks. Smelly boots. Bloody sores.

I focused on mental images of the least sexy things I could think of.

My pride was at stake here. I couldnotgive in this soon, no matter how nice she smelled or how soft her skin looked. One kiss wasn’t worth the lifetime of gloating she’d lord over me if I lost.

Brooklyn yawned and stretched her arms over her head. Her sleeve grazed my arm, and a flicker of electricity darted over my skin.

I tensed.

Screw this. It was time to fight back.

I followed her lead and pretended to yawn. I leaned back, lazily stretching my arms and draping one over the back of the couch. The move was a classic for a reason—it worked.

My fingertips brushed the curve of her shoulder. I was close enough to feel the heat of her body, but that meant the reverse was also true.

I shifted in my seat. My thigh touched hers, and I had to suppress a smile when she stiffened.

That’s right. Two can play at this game.