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Chuckling at his antics, I push his hand away and force myself to leave the bed. “I’ll start the shower if you start the coffee.”

Brock climbs out of the bed, his erection saluting me loud and proud. “Will do, firecracker.”

I pad into the bathroom and fiddle with the shower knobs until the temperature is just right. The hot water soothes my aching, well-used muscles. I’m reaching for my shampoo when the door opens and Brock joins me.

“You know,” he says as he takes the shampoo bottle from me and squirts some in his palm. “I had an epiphany when I was starting the coffee.”

I lean into him as he lathers up my hair, massaging my scalp. “Did you now?”

“I did. You know some people say the only way to cure a hangover is to keep drinking?” I nod and step back under the spray to rinse my hair. “Well, maybe that’s the cure for being over-orgasmed…”

“What? Drinking?” I ask, unable to follow his logic.

“No, firecracker.” He drops to his knees before me. “More orgasms.”

Forty-five minutesand three O’s—two for me and one for him—later, we’re finally out the door and on our way to breakfast with his mom.

Upside, we’re not going to be late. Downside, I’m pretty sure I look exactly how I feel…freshly-fucked. If my rat’s nest, semi-damp hair and flushed cheeks aren’t a dead giveaway, the lovely hickey I’m sporting on my collarbone will be.

Yay, fun.

Brock picks up on my nervousness as we pull through the massive iron gate that surrounds the Larson house. I jump when I feel his hand come down on my ever-bouncing leg. “Abs, chill. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

“Is it? What if your dad somehow?—”

“That asshole is done. Don’t even worry about him, okay?”

I bite the corner of my bottom lip, pulling it into my mouth. “If you say so.”

“I do.” He parks his truck, and my mind spins at those two little words.I do…words he almost gave to someone else. I wonder if one day he’ll give them to me? “C’mon, firecracker. Let’s go eat.”

He grasps my hand as we walk up the steps, only letting go long enough to knock on the door.

“Honey!” his mother exclaims wrapping him in a tight hug. “You don’t need to knock. Not anymore.”

Brock shrugs his shoulders. “Old habits.”

She looks back and forth between the two of us, as if she’s not quite sure how to greet me. “Well, y’all come in.”

We follow her into the house and the scent of frying bacon fills my nose. “Oh, yum,” I groan right as my stomach lets out a loud grumble.

“Smells good, right?” Mrs. Larson asks. “I make sure Marta buys it really fatty. Just tastes better that way.”

“That it does,” I agree.

We follow her into the kitchen, where there’s a kind-looking older woman plating up the most delicious looking breakfast—big, fluffy pancakes dripping with syrup; thick, crisp bacon; and fresh fruit drizzled with poppyseed dressing.

“I thought we could eat on the porch?” Brock’s mom asks as she picks up a plate piled high with food. Brock and I do the same and follow her out to the enormous screened-in area.

I’m in the middle of a huge bite when she addresses me. “Abby…AJ…”

“Either,” I tell her, covering my mouth with my hand.

“I feel as though I owe you an apology. My husband is a despicable man, and I should have left him long ago. Unfortunately, for a long time, I fed into hisimage is everythingdiatribe. Thankfully, I’ve removed my rose-colored glasses. I hate that his actions—our actions—hurt you.”

She’s definitely right about their actions hurting me, but I can see the genuine remorse in her eyes and hear it in her voice. “It’s okay, Mrs. Larson?—”

“Please call me Dina, dear.”