Page 21 of Trick Shot

My stomach clenches. So do my thighs.

“Only with wild animals,” I force out.

That earns me a slow chuckle, lazy and amused. He takes a step closer, beer in hand, eyes still fixed on me like I’ve become far more entertaining than whatever conversation he left behind on the patio.

And I smell it. The hoodie’s scent hits harder now, only this time it’s not coming from the hoodie. It’s coming from him.

The realization slams into my gut.

Oh.

Oh no.

My fingers twitch at the hem of the hoodie.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, half to myself.

His eyes drop, tracking the motion. And then he leans in just enough to brush the words right against my skin.

“Quite snappy,” he murmurs, “for someone wearing my clothes.”

My entire body locks. Heat detonates in my stomach and pulses straight between my thighs.

I blink at him, then down at myself, like I need proof.

“I thought it was my brother’s. I didn’t mean to…” Panic flares as I scramble, grabbing the hem, trying to peel it off.

But he steps forward and tugs the hoodie down. A slow, deliberate stop.

“Already undressing for me?” he asks, voice low and thick.

Before I can even form a coherent clapback, he steps closer. The island counter presses into my lower back, and my heart misses a beat.

His eyes are on mine—no smirk now. Just pure, molten, coiled tension. The kind of look that makes your knees forget their job.

His scent surrounds me, deeper now, from the fabric on my body and the heat of his breath just inches from my face. My hands tremble slightly, still caught in the hem of the hoodie.

“Want a taste?” He lifts his beer, still watching me, and tips it in my direction.

“I don’t drink beer.” I eye the bottle.

His grin widens, teeth white, eyes sharp.

“That right?” he says, and then, slowly, he brings the bottle to his lips and drinks. His throat flexes as he swallows, strong and slow. The muscles in his neck working with every tilt.

I watch him, completely transfixed. The counter is behind me, his body is in front of me, and all I can feel is the heat pouring off his skin and the reckless awareness that my brother is just a few feet away.

And this, whatever this is, is very, very bad.

The silence stretches, taut and dangerous, before he breaks it.

“I’m Jace, by the way,” he murmurs.

Jace.

My breath comes out shallow through my parted lips. His beer bottle rests casually in his fingers as he steps away from me. The movement is slow but intentional, like he wants me to feel the absence of his body.

His eyes flick over me one last time, landing on the hoodie.