Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 123

The plate’s empty before I even register I finished eating.

Across the room, Penny’s rinsing hers, stacking mugs like she’s the head of kitchen staff. She doesn’t need to, no one’s asked her to—but that’s the kind of girl she is. Always doing the small, quiet things that make her easy to miss and impossible to ignore.

I take another sip of lukewarm coffee, still watching her. The light from the window cuts across her cheek, and there’s a faint crease in her brow like she’s deep in some thought I’ll probably never be allowed into. That sweater she chose to wear clings to her every curve, and her hair’s now pulled into a ponytail.

And for some reason I can’t name, that image feels like something I want to keep.

“Hey.”

I look up.

It’s the blond guy from the night before. Max.

He looks a little more awake now, dark hoodie, jeans, glass of orange juice in hand. He gives me a nod and the kind of smile that’s meant to be disarming but doesn’t quite hit.

“Can I?” he asks, motioning to the seat next to mine.

I shrug once. “Sure.”

He sits, angles slightly toward me. “Sorry about yesterday, man. My friends were kinda…” he makes a gesture like he’s swatting flies. “Over-the-top.”

“They were fine,” I say.

“Still. You handled it better than most would.”

I hum noncommittally.

He studies me for a second. “You look like a nice guy.”

“I’m not,” I say simply.

Max laughs once. “Yeah, okay. I believe that.”

Beat of silence.

“You hang out with Penny and Tyler often?”

I lift a shoulder. “Here and there. Been home a month.”

Max nods, like he already knew that somehow.

“She said you told her something,” I add. “About Tyler. You said to be careful.”

He raises an eyebrow, cautious now. “You gonna punch me for talking about your brother?”

“No.”

Max watches me for another moment, then lets out a breath. “Tyler’s fun. Charismatic. I’ll give him that.”

“But?” I prompt.

“But he’s a dick.”

That earns a twitch of my mouth. “Got specifics?”

“Not all firsthand,” Max says. “But the team talks. He gets girls to ignore their boyfriends, then ghosts them. Lies to people. Picks fights just to pick fights. He’s got this superiority thing. You can tell he thinks he’s better than the rest of us.”

My jaw ticks.

“But honestly,” Max continues, “that’s not even what bothers me. It’s Penny. She seems like a good person. Kind. And I just don’t think he’s being honest with her.”

I narrow my eyes. “About what?”

Max hesitates. Runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t see it myself, but a couple of guys on the team swear they’ve seen him hanging around with this girl, and they say it’s... more-than-friendly.”

My fingers curl slightly around my mug.

“Is said girl here?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I'm not answering that. Just figured… you’d wanna know.”

I give him a nod. “Thanks.”

Max stands, then says over his shoulder, “I like Penny. I hope she doesn’t get burned.”

So do I.

But it’s probably too late.

I sit there for a few more seconds, tracking the way Penny’s moving across the room, laughing now at something a girl next to her said. Tyler’s next to her. He’s doing his thing—charming, arms loose around his friends, making everyone look at him like he’s the center of the goddamn universe.

And for the first time, I feel something colder than anger towards him.

Disappointment.

“Yo!” someone yells, jumping onto one of the benches near the fireplace. “There’s a little winter market like fifteen minutes from here. Open-air, all cozy and old-school. We should go before it starts snowing again.”

People cheer. A few shout “Yes!” and “I need hot chocolate!”

I glance at Penny just as she turns toward me—eyes catching mine like she was waiting for the right moment.

“Omggg,” she says, breathless with enthusiasm, and jogs the last few steps to close the distance between us. Her feet make little sounds on the hardwood, sweater sleeves pulled over her hands, cheeks slightly pink from the jog or from something else. “All your *favorite* things. Tiny glittery snowflakes. Hot chocolate. Dainty overpriced snow-globes. Quaint seasonal shops. Minimal shelter from frostbite. Just *perfect* for you.”

She latches onto my arm with both hands, her fingers curling over my shirt sleeve like she’s trying to physically anchor me in place.

I arch a brow at her, but I don’t move. “Keep going.”

Her eyes dance. “What, not sold yet?”

“Not quite.”

“Oh. Okay.” She straightens, suddenly businesslike. “Add in flutes playing carols off-key. Tourists asking for directions in the woods. Hand-knitted mittens no one needs. And probably some small-town grandma force-feeding you a gingerbread cookie the size of your head.”

I stare at her.

“*And*,” she goes on, voice dropping into dramatic horror, “*you*, walking around looking like you want to kill Santa? You're gonna terrify the locals, Hayes. *They’re gonna cancel Christmas!"*

That pulls something out of me. A low breath of laughter I can’t bite down.

She beams like she’s won. Like her goal wasn’t to convince me at all—it was to make me laugh. And hell, maybe it was. Because now she’s beaming up at me with her hands still on my arm, looking so proud of herself I don’t even care how ridiculous the last thirty seconds have been.

“Keep going,” I murmur. “You’re dangerously close to convincing me not to go.”

She salutes, mock-formal. “Reporting for market duty, sir.”

I shake my head once, the corner of my mouth twitching. “You’re something else, ballerina.”

She leans closer. “And you’re going to love it. Or at least tolerate it. For the sake of community morale.”

“You keep selling it like this,” I say, “and I might start to think you actually want to be seen in public with me.”

“Oh, I do,” she says with a wink. “As long as you don’t punch a snowman. I'm pretty sure that's illegal.”

I can’t help it. I smile.

Then I stand, shake the last of the crumbs off my shirt, and press my hand lightly to her lower back. Just enough pressure to move her toward the door, where the others are starting to gather—scarves and coats and laughter rising like steam.

Because if I’m going to be dragged through a winter market that looks like a Christmas card exploded, I’m going to do it with her.

Every damn time.