Brandon paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Why do you have to hate?”
She grinned and cut into her pancakes. Matt was still at the stove, pouring the last of the pancake batter into the pan. She glanced at him, then at Brandon. Stella leaned closer to Brandon and lowered her voice. “Um”—she shifted in her seat when one of his dark brows lifted—“what exactly happened last night?”
“You mean after you fell asleep and I carried you to bed?”
Heat flooded her cheeks at the image of him carrying her, then laying her beneath his covers. Had his touch lingered? Did he sneak any peeks while she’d been out of it?
No, Brandon would never do that. He was too honorable to take advantage of a woman in that way. On the other hand, if something had happened between them, wouldn’t she have remembered?
“Relax, Stella,” Brandon soothed. “I tucked you in nice and tight and that’s all.”
She nodded. “Okay.” More nodding, because the disappointment she felt was ridiculous. Wasn’t it? “Good.” They ate in silence while Matt shut the stove off and filled his own plate. “Except, why didn’t you just wake me up and send me home?”
Brandon eyed her over the rim of his coffee cup. “Didn’t think you were up to driving home. Figured you were better off staying here.”
“Oh,” was all she said. “Thanks.”
His brow arched again. “Don’t mention it.”
Matt joined them at the table, crowding the space with his plate and glass of juice. He nudged Brandon’s plate to make room. Brandon nudged back, which Matt answered with a shove to Brandon’s shoulder.
“Hey,” Brandon replied, and pushed Matt back.
“Dude, move over,” Matt said.
The play was like watching two brothers rather than father and son. Stella coughed into her drink to hide her grin.
“Stella, you should come shooting with us this weekend,” Matt announced.
Stella glanced at the kid while Brandon choked on his coffee. “Shooting?” she questioned.
Matt cut into his pancakes. “Yeah, Dad and I go into the mountains with our rifles.”
She glanced at Brandon, who was still recovering from shooting coffee out his nose. “If you go up there to shoot Bambi, I want no part of it.”
“Bambi?” Matt repeated with a wrinkled brow.
Brandon smacked Matt on the shoulder. “She means deer. And I doubt Stella would be into that.”
Did he not want her to go? Was it some sacred father-son thing that he didn’t want her impeding on? Was she not worthy to partake of their time together?
“Actually,” she said to Matt, “that sounds like fun.”
“Fun?” Brandon repeated. “Shooting a rifle sounds like fun?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Why, is it not fun?”
“Hell yeah it’s fun,” Matt confirmed.
Brandon whacked him again. “Watch your language.” He directed his attention back to Stella. “I only meant that it doesn’t seem like something you’d be into.”
Stella leaned back in her chair and eyed him from across the table, meeting the challenge in his eyes. “Why? Because I teach little girls how to point their toes? Or because I used to spend just as much time in a tutu as I did in regular street clothes?”
Brandon shot a look at Matt, as though pleading for help. Apparently Matt wasn’t on board because he only chewed his food in silence. “Uh…yeah?”
Matt shook his head. “Dude, wrong answer.”
Stella leaned forward and glared at Brandon; then she placed her hand on Matt’s shoulder. “I would love to come shooting with you.”
So, yeah. Showed him, didn’t she?
Later that night, the Bobcats were playing like shit during their game against the Alamosa Maroons. Cody had thrown for two interceptions before Blake had yanked him at halftime. Things had turned around slightly in the third quarter when the Bobcats had narrowed the point gap to one touchdown. Matt hadn’t had much play time, only seeing the field for about half the second quarter before Blake had pulled him. Brandon had kept his protests to himself, trusting that his cousin knew what he was doing, even if his kid getting benched made every parental bone in Brandon’s body want to protest.
“What’s wrong with you?” Stella asked for the fourth time since halftime.
Knowing he’d been unusually quiet, Brandon dug for another cheese-drenched chip and searched his mind for an excuse. “Just trying to enjoy these Michelin-star-worthy nachos.”
She snorted and scanned the action on the field. “Nice try. When you go quiet, something’s wrong.”
Did she know him that well? “Actually I’m pondering whether or not to go easy on you or school you in the art of shooting.”
She smirked at him. Her long hair was down, with a chunk of it draped over her shoulder and pooling around her breast. “By all means, don’t feel the need to go easy on me. I can give as good as I get.”
Yeah, he didn’t doubt that for a second. “You know, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” he blurted out.
“Why would I not want to?” she countered. “It sounds like fun.” She looked at him again, hypnotizing him with those clear blue eyes. Honestly, they were like looking into the waters of a warm Caribbean sea. Not that he knew what that looked like exactly, but it seemed like a good comparison.
“I’m just concerned for someone who’s never used a gun before,” he hedged.
Her brow pinched in disbelief. “How do you know I’ve never used a gun before?”
Stella, the petite, lithe ballerina who floated around with all the regal air of an aristocrat handling a twelve-gauge? Call him crazy, but he couldn’t picture it.
“Have you?” he questioned.
An adorable pink stained her cheeks, one he wanted to kiss away. “Well, if you must know, I haven’t. Not that it’ll make a difference. I’m sure I can handle a gun as well as you can.”
Poor little Stella Davenport. She hated admitting there was something on the planet she’d yet to master.
“I mean, how hard could it be to aim and pull the trigger?” she went on.
He slanted her a look. “It’s a little more complicated than that, but sure.”
“If I can do a triple pirouette on my toes without any toe pads, I’m sure I can handle a gun.”
He nudged her shoulder with his. “I don’t know what that is, but it sounds dirty.” Seriously? Could you be a bigger jackass?
She grinned and wiggled her eyebrows. “If you think that’s hot, you should see me lift my leg up over my head.”
The chip he’d just taken a bite of went down the wrong way. “Can you really do that?” he asked through bitter coughs to clear the food from his pipe.