Page 66 of Avery's Hero

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. Themoment he finds out aboutus, 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.