Page 25

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

When I climb out of Brock’s bed the next morning, I’m wobbly, yummy-sore, and alone. From the kitchen, cooking sounds drift down the hallway.

Something smells amazing. Coffee and cinnamon and something else float like tasty clouds in the air.

Enjoying the gigantic master bath, I make myself at home, and even use his toothpaste on my finger. When I emerge, I scan the bedroom until I find a small clock on the dresser. It’s one of those old-fashioned travel clocks. It’s tiny, made from gold metal with a built-in leather case that turns into a stand. It’s not something I would imagine Brock owning. Which means it must be sentimental .

The time reads six-forty. A flare of nerves kick off in my gut. I should be getting to work soon.

On the chair by the bedroom door, I find a stack of clean T-shirts. The T-shirt fairy has been busy again. When I lift the cloth to my nose, there’s just a hint of fragrance. Nothing overwhelming. Just a hint of fresh air and sunshine, which makes me wonder if they’ve been line-dried. Brock’s T-shirt fairy must be really domestic.

When I tug a white shirt on, it falls mid-thigh and swallows my arms. Grinning, I tie it in a knot at the side of my hip. I might not be a very experienced sex kitten, but I’m not clueless. I think he’ll like the view.

Following the sounds and mouthwatering scents, I pad, barefoot down the hallway. “Good morning.”

Screw whatever’s cooking. Brock looks good enough to eat. He glances up. A slow, deep smile creeps onto his handsome face. I’ve never seen him wear that exact expression, but I like it. More than a lot.

The morning light is loving him too. He’s got a dark beard shadow on his jaw, his hair is damp but a little tousled. It’s my new favorite sight.

Walking slowly forward, I ask, “What time do we have to be at work?” I’m secretly hoping he says, ‘never.’

“Eight-thirty, I’m thinking, nothing’s in stone.”

“Good. I’m gonna need a few minutes here to get myself together.”

He opens the oven and takes a quick look before rounding the island toward me. My eyes pop a little when I see the boxer briefs he’s got on. They’re black and skin tight. Okay, maybe it’s not the briefs that have my eyes popping, but it sure as heck is the way he looks in the tight black fabric. His bulge is song-worthy .

Reaching for me, he says, “You’re looking a little dreamy-eyed there.”

I laugh against his chest as he hugs me. His embrace is so warm, I can’t help but melt into it. “Who knew having sex with a Louisville Slugger would give a girl such a nice, rosy disposition?”

He holds me tight, rests his head on top of mine. I inhale him like it’s my dying breath. My heart swells so much it makes my insides hurt. It would be far too easy to get used to waking up to this man.

Don’t lose your head here, Avery.

This can’t go anywhere.

Then he rasps, “I feel the same.”

My insides shimmer in a warm glowing light.

Who knows how I come up with my quick reply when my brain is sloshing around inside my head after that statement. I say, “I doubt that. You didn’t ride the Clydesdale last night.”

He chuckles in that low, sexy way. My ovaries jump to attention. Then they faint when he says, “God bless, Avery, you were made for me.”

I punch him lightly in the gut. “Careful there, stud. You’re gonna make me think you like me.”

He holds me away, at arm’s length, his hands wrapped around my upper arms. Eyes hard and serious, he says, “I don’t just like you, Avery, I want something more. You’ll call me crazy, but it’s the truth and I want it out there.”

Oh. My. Talk about coming out of left field. This is out of control.

Brock’s confessions are enough to make a girl need cardiac surgery.

“Sit. You look like you might faint.”

I blink and gasp for a few seconds as he directs me to the stool at the counter. He helps me on, then wraps his arms around me, and tucks my cheek against his shoulder.

“Does the prospect of seeing me regularly give you anxiety?”

“Well, yeah. Doesn’t it do the same thing to you?”

“Not anxiety. Heartburn like I’ve swallowed a flaming sword, but not anxiety.”

I pinch at his stomach. “I hate to tell you this, but that’s not sexy. No woman wants to give a man heartburn.”

He laughs softly. “Honey, it’s not you. It’s the rest of the world. You are the balm, the comfort. The thing I didn’t know I needed until you made me realize it.”

He tips me back, holds my shoulders in his hands and looks right into my soul. “It’s going to be messy. I don’t care what it takes.”

I lick across my dry lips. “Brock. You can’t throw away your career.”

“I’ll get another. It’s not the first time I’ve reinvented myself.”

“Wait!” I croak, in a panic. “We’re not going to talk about you quitting your job. That’s insane.”

“It might come to that.”

I clutch my chest as he stares at me. “I must be in some kind of crazy movie or something. You did not just tell me you’d quit your job for me after only seeing me for a few days.”

He grips my chin, leans down, and kisses me. When he pulls back, he says, “A year.”

My groan is loud. “Please. You’ve lost your mind.”

He grins. “So have you. Admit it.”

I clutch his arms and drop my forehead to his pec. “Oh, I’ve lost my mind, alright. I think you knocked it right out of me last night. ”

He laughs and kisses the top of my head. “I know a few other tricks.”

Worry tightens my throat. “Seriously, Brock. What are we going to do?”

“Figure it out as we go.”

The worry in my throat sinks to the bottom of my belly. “Easy for you to say.”

He runs his fingers through my hair, gently combing out the tangles that he gave me. “I think the first thing we should do is set you up in your own apartment, unless you’re ready to move in here.”

I jolt like I’ve been hit with a taser. I try to wiggle out of his arms, but he won’t let me. “Whoa there, cowboy. You’re really talking like someone who needs an intervention now. First, we just started… dating. If that’s what you call this insanity. Second, someone would find out that I lived here, someone important, like the guy who runs City Hall. And most importantly, your son might hate me.”

With a quick kiss on the forehead, Brock lets go and heads back around the gigantic kitchen island. I cling to the stool and try not to fall on the floor as I try to comprehend how we got from point A to point Z at the speed of sound.

He said I have a quick brain, but someone’s brain would have to be on crack to be moving this fast.

All the while, he moves around the kitchen, looking as casual as if he’s discussing buying a pair of underwear—not moving a girl that he barely knows into his house, a girl who he’s forbidden to date, who’s eleven years younger, who could be the mortal enemy of his teenage son.

Brock interrupts my spiraling brain. “He’s going to love you. I mean, he already opened up to you about a girl when he didn’t even give me a clue.”

“He was just talking to some random person, then. The moment he finds out about us , it’s going to be a whole different ball game. Think about it, Brock, how was your ability to think logically and control your temper at that age?”

“Slim,” he says, as he slips on a very large, seriously manly oven mitt.

I’m staring. Brock’s pretty much naked, looking like a model for a nutrition supplement ad, with an oven mitt on, talking to me about moving in.

Something, like a cog, rattles and falls off inside my head. It clinks as it hits some imaginary floor, rolls and lands with a thunk.

Gazing over his shoulder at me, Brock says, “He could use another ear in the house. Someone who’s not an asshole like me. He hasn’t had a mom in a long time.”

My heart flat out quits.

M-m-mom?!

“Mom—” I sputter. I’m off the stool and pacing with Brock’s eyes hot on my legs.

I wave a hand in his direction. “Quit. Don’t look at me like that. I’m having a mental crisis over here.”

“Because I said 'mom'?”

“God. Yes! Because you said the word—mom.” I have to force it out like the word has claws that are dug into my throat.

Removing the tray of—oh my god, are those cinnamon rolls?—he just watches me with open curiosity on his face.

When I can get my mouth to close, I form semi-intelligent words. “Did you make homemade cinnamon rolls?”

He shrugs one of those massive shoulders. “Yeah. Well, I made the dough and froze it. This morning, I just assembled and baked them. Make a little frosting for the top. It didn’t take long. ”

I groan miserably and cover my face with my hands to keep myself from gaping at the man standing in his hot-as-sin briefs with his kickass oven mitt, holding a tray of… yes… homemade cinnamon rolls.

Frowning, he looks at the cooling pastries. “You don’t like cinnamon rolls?”

Dropping my hands from my face, I fist them. I half shout, “Who doesn’t like cinnamon rolls, Brock?”

His eyes twinkle.

“Not fair!”

“Come here, sweetheart. I can hardly watch you prance around in my T-shirt any longer. If you don’t quit, I’m going to have you for breakfast instead.”

I gasp. The nerve of him. “Don’t you dare talk about sex right now.”

He drags a finger through the icing in the bowl and slips it between his lips. “As you wish, my dear.” He smiles. Devilishly.

My hormones sizzle in glee. My brain on the other hand is having a crisis. Of epic proportions. Thanks to him.

Argh! The jerk.

Drawn by the tantalizing, magnetic scent of my favorite food—not by the sight of him, I swear—I take a step toward the island. I glare at him as he watches me with a small, victorious smile on his lips.

“ You can’t just be throwing out the M word.”

“The M word?”

“MOM, for heaven’s sake.”

Leaning on his elbow, he drags his finger through the icing again. “Never thought about being a mom? I think you’d be excellent.”

A shudder runs through me. “Mom stuff scares me. I don’t have any clue what to do with a baby.”

“You’ d do fine, sweetheart. All those book-smarts, you’d have it figured out in a jiff. Besides—” His words fall off as he licks his finger again.

“Besides, what?” I growl as I lunge the final step to the island and fight the urge to grab one of those rolls. My stomach lets out a mighty growl.

His eyes crinkle with a smile as he scoops up more icing and lifts it to my mouth.

God, it’s tempting. I should bite it. Just because.

But I lick the icing off instead and groan.

Sweet heaven coats my tongue. I have to restrain myself from diving on the pan and inhaling every one of the darn things.

When I raise my eyes to him, he’s watching me with burning eyes and parted lips.

After I lick the remaining icing off my lip, I ask, “Besides, what?”

Never looking away from my lips, he says, “I’ve done it.”

Totally confused, I stare at him. “What?”

“Raised a baby.”

Puzzled, I tilt my head. “I thought you were gone with the Marines.”

“Not until Lincoln was three. I was flipping houses and did a little real estate investing before, but I always knew I’d serve. All the men in my family have. I was just waiting for the right time. When things started going south with Tamara, I knew it was the best way for us to get space, and for me to be of true service.”

My brain whirs as my mouth twists.

It’s his turn to tilt his head and study me. “What?”

“You… you just surprise me.”

He slides a square white plate in front of me and uses a spatula to lift two fat cinnamon rolls onto it .

“I think that’s a good thing,” he says with a brow lifted.

“It is. But it doesn’t give you the right to throw mom conversations around when I’ve just crawled out of bed. Especially when you’ve knocked my brains out to the stratosphere.”

He reaches for his coffee, sips from the mug slowly. I notice he doesn’t apologize. Trying not to look at him, I pick up a gooey roll and take a bite.

Of course he’d wait until I had a mouthful to drop a bomb on me.

“Seeing you all sexed up and hot in my shirt padding into the kitchen, made me think about how much I’d like to have you pregnant with my child.”

Holy. Mother. Of. God.

Somehow, I manage to swallow without choking to death. But barely. I start coughing.

Lord only knows how I didn’t keel over on my face and suffocate in icing. There must have an angel on my shoulder because the man in front of me just might be the death of me if he blindsides me with one more comment like that.