Page 25 of The Defender

From that point on, it was a choreography of deliberate-disguised-as-unintentional attacks.

Brooklyn leaned into my embrace; I brought my arm fully around her shoulders.

She reached across me for popcorn, bringing her face perilously close to mine. From this distance, I could count each freckle scattered across her nose and cheeks and feel the soft warmth of her breath against my skin.

I turned my head, daring her to close the gap between us.

She didn’t, and I didn’t, but the possibility was there, humming in the background.

Neither of us spoke. Our communication was broadcast through our actions, and for the first time since I got hooked on Bake Off, I was only half paying attention to the weekly challenge.

The judges’ commentary drowned out the heavy thumps of my heart. This entire bet was a catch-22—I was torturing myself as much as I was her with every “accidental” touch and glance. But that was what made it fun, and seduction attempts aside, this felt nice—us sitting on the couch, watching my comfort show together. I wasn’t tempted to prove myself by filling the silence with funny stories or interesting tidbits. I could just…be.

By the time the showstoppers were judged and the episode wrapped, Brooklyn and I were snuggled closer than a real couple, but I refused to admit defeat and pull away first. Apparently, she felt the same way, so we were stuck in a tangle of limbs on the couch.

“So? What do you think?” I made a conscious effort not to inhale too deeply. Her head was tucked beneath my chin, and I was convinced she’d added some secret aphrodisiacs to her shampoo. No hair product should smellthatgood. “Did you change your mind about the show being just fine?”

Conversation was good. Conversation distracted me from how close her hand was to a certain private part—not enough to cross a line, but enough that I knew she was doing it on purpose. Well, I wasn’t falling for it. Not today.

“It’s better than I expected,” she admitted. “But I’m still not convinced it’s as great as you say it is.”

My mouth parted. “Unbelievable.” How could she say that after Pastry Week? It was famously one of the best weeks! “I was right when I said your bad taste is incurable.”

“This coming from a guy who drinks protein shakes that taste like old gym socks.”

“How—have you been stealing my shakes?”

“I took atinysip of one because I was curious.” Brooklyn pinched her thumb and forefinger together to indicate how small her infraction was. “I’m a nutritionist. I couldn’t help it. But don’t worry, I learned my lesson because it was the most disgusting drink I’ve ever had.”

“Your job isn’t an excuse for committing an offense.”

She huffed out a laugh. “You’re such a fucking drama queen. No wonder you love reality TV.”

“That’s probably true,” I acknowledged. I loved the messiness of reality TV. Sure, most of it was scripted, but some of it wasn’t. It made me feel better, knowing I wasn’t the only one who had to deal with weird people and fucked-up situations.

“Have you ever tried baking some of the stuff from the show?” Brooklyn asked.

“Once. I almost burned down my kitchen.”

She lifted her head to stare at me. “You’re joking.”

“I swear. Firefighters came and everything. It was humiliating. My craving for blueberry pancakes made me the butt of my neighborhood’s jokes for weeks.” I grimaced. “Anyway, I never tried to bake again.”

She burst into a fresh bout of laughter. “Oh, I would’ve paidgoodmoney to see that. Please tell me there are pictures.”

“I’m glad my suffering amuses you.” But my mouth curved with reluctance. It was impossible to hear her laugh without wanting to smile too.

We were still wrapped around each other, but our stubborn defiance had softened into something that felt almost normal.

We had to leave the living room eventually, but the moment felt too good for me to let go yet.

“What were you really working on yesterday?” I asked.

Brooklyn raised a quizzical brow.

“In the kitchen, before I came in,” I clarified. “No one getsthatexcited about creating meal plans.”

“Oh. That.” Her smile faded. A second later, she disentangled herself from me and scooted over on the sofa. Cool air rushed in to fill her absence. It was a technical win for me in our silent battle, but I mourned her warmth too much to celebrate.