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We settle on Bay Harbor—a cute little bistro down by the water. Over caramel-soaked French toast and mimosas, she tries once again to breach the Brock subject, but like before, I change the subject. I know she can see right through me, but I also know that she knows I’ll talk when I’m good and ready and not a second before.

After brunch, we hit the mall. A new pair of Nike SB sneakers and a few tops later, Stacia jets off to meet her parents for an early dinner, and I head back to my apartment. Thoughts of Brock threaten to creep in, and I’m almost tempted to text him, which means I need a diversion.

Even though I showered this morning, I run myself a bubble bath, determined to soak the thoughts of him away. While the tub fills, I lean my head over the side and wet my hair down so I can apply a liberal dose of my pink color-depositing conditioner. I comb it through and pile my hair on the top of my head, securing it with an alligator clip.

Stepping into the tub, I sink down into the hot, steamy water and grab my Kindle from the little table I set up next to the bath. I tap open my latest read—a sexy rom-com about a sex therapist who has a thing for young, William Levi lookalikes but finds herself falling for a slightly older single dad. I’m so lost in the pages of my latest book, I don’t even realize my conditioner’s been sitting for half an hour and my water’s cold.

After I drain the tub, I hop in the shower to rinse my hair and decide while I’m there that I may as well go all out on a full pampering session; I exfoliate, shave, and do a face mask. Hell, by the time I’m finished, my skin is tinged pink from the hot water, and I’m squeaky clean.

With my skin still damp, I massage my Love Spell lotion in all over. The sweet fragrance almost makes me think of Brock and his shower activities, but I stay strong and toss my hair up in a towel, resolute in my intention to think ofanythingother than him.

I throw on a pair of panties and a tank top and decide to tidy up my apartment. Once every surface is gleaming, I chow down on a bowl of cereal and crack open my laptop to work on getting ahead in a few of my classes—really all of them, except British Lit, because that class makes me think of you-know-who.

By the time bedtime rolls around, I’m proud as fuck of myself, because I haven’t thought of him not even once. Not really, I mean, until now. But this totally doesn’t count because I’m only thinking of him to congratulate myself for not thinking of him.

CHAPTER 11

BROCK

Abby Janeand I seem to be stuck in a holding pattern, and to say I’m over it would be a gross understatement. The girl runs more and hot and cold than that damn Katy Perry song. Tonight, at tutoring, I’m putting an end to this stupid-ass game once and for all.

As if my stress levels aren’t high enough between my tumultuous relationship with Abby Jane, classes three days a week, tutoring two, volunteering one, golfing all fucking seven—and that doesn’t even count actual tournaments—Amanda blew up my phone all damn weekend. I managed to dodge her, but something tells me my luck is running out where she’s concerned.

Just gonna go ahead and add that to the list of shit I don’t want to think about.Other items on said list include my douchebag father and his expectations, and how the hell I’m going to continue at this pace. While I do my best not to show it, I need a break.

I’m heading out of the weight room when Coach Murphy yells my name.

I pivot in place to face him. “Yes, sir?”

“I trust you’re on track with that class of yours?”

“Yes, sir. Tutoring is helping. We had a quiz this past Wednesday—I killed it.”

“Good. Keep it up,” he says, turning and walking away, effectively dismissing me.

Like every Tuesday, I rush home and change into a pair of khakis and a polo before grabbing lunch and heading to the course. Unlike every Tuesday, today my phone pings with an incoming text from my father asking me to call him.Asking. Like I actually have an option.Fucking asshole.

Grudgingly, I hit the call icon next to his name and the sound of ringing filters out through my truck’s speakers. “Took you long enough,” he snaps in lieu of a normal, civil greeting.

“Less than two minutes, Dad. I literally just got your text.”

“I sent it five minutes ago, Brock.” He sounds so put out to have waited on me for three minutes.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Dad. But I have the time stamp on my phone saying when it came through.”

“Enough with this childishness. I need you to stop by the house when you finish at the links.”

I hold in my sigh, even though it almost kills me. “Yes, sir, but I can’t stay long. I have?—”

He cuts me off. “Great. See you then.”

“Sure thing. Wasn’t like I was talking,” I mutter, even though he can’t hear me. God, he’s such a pompous, self-obsessed jackass.

My earlier phonecall with dear old dad has me off my game. I’m shooting over par and landing my ball in every goddamn hazard on the course. After the first eighteen holes, I’ve had it,and decide to ride the cart as the guys work their way through the next eighteen.

Normally we would give a guy shit for sitting out, but I think they can tell I’m in no mood to be fucked with, because they don’t say a word, acting like it’s the most normal thing on earth.

I’m so busy obsessing over why I’ve been summoned to my childhood home, I don’t even realize we’ve made it back to the clubhouse. But the second I do, I haul ass from the cart to my truck, not even bothering to tell anyone goodbye.