The Bachelor Auction (The Bachelors of Arizona Book 1)

by Rachel Van Dyken

  His orgasm followed immediately after, and he yelled the first “yes” he’d ever really meant.

  For her.

  For them.

  Brock looked down at Jane, kissed her softly, then smiled.

  “What?” She was out of breath. “Why are you smiling at me like that?”

  “Because.” He shrugged. “We still have nine days alone, unless you count the animals, but I’m going to be more careful about locking doors from here on out.”

  “Oh.” She nodded. “So we’re going to have sex like nine more times? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Nine? Woman, you’ll be lucky to get any work done outside of this bedroom for the next two weeks.”

  “Oh, no.” Her face fell in mock sincerity. “I hope my employer won’t be angry with me.”

  “He may punish you.” Brock kept a straight face. “Hard time in the bedroom for not cleaning the bathrooms just right.”

  She smirked. “Slave driver.”

  “He really is.”

  She fell into a fit of laughter when he slapped her ass playfully then rose from the bed to grab a towel and start the shower.

  They both needed to wash off the sweat and everything else.

  He was in his room, so he at least had clothes at hand, but she would want to put on something comfortable.

  “Be right back,” he called over his shoulder while she stretched out on the bed. Damn it, he was ready for her again.

  He quickly ran into her room in search of sweats or something she could wear so that she wouldn’t have to run around naked—even though that’s exactly what he wanted. But he knew she’d want to be comfortable, or maybe he just wanted her to be comfortable. Because suddenly all that mattered was her.

  His eyes locked on the dresser. He walked over and opened the top drawer and cursed as he pulled the drawer out far enough that it fell.

  Jane came running at the sound, a towel wrapped around her body. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

  “Get out,” he whispered.

  “But—”

  “I said”—he rasped—“get the hell out! Now!” He kicked the dresser. Jane’s perfume flew off the top, smashing at his feet, filling the room with her scent.

  Her eyes filled with tears.

  And she ran.

  Good. She should run.

  He couldn’t control the rage that filled him. Bracing himself against the dresser he looked down at the drawer.

  It never occurred to him that his grandfather would keep things. Keep memories, store them away for Brock to find.

  Plaid shirts.

  Harmless plaid shirts.

  And stuck between them, the stuffed dog his dad had given him—the day before he’d died.

  The day of the fight.

  “But I don’t want to!” Brock had yelled. “You can’t make us move to California! I belong here!”

  His father sighed. “Brock, it’s my responsibility to keep my word to your grandfather and he needs someone in the LA office.”

  “Fine.” Brock crossed his arms, “Then you go! I’m staying here!” He threw the stuffed dog his father had given him back into his face. “No!” He stomped his foot. “I won’t go. I hate you! I hate you!”

  His parents died the very next day.

  He fell to his knees amidst the broken picture frames that had joined the smashed perfume bottles on the floor and didn’t even care that shards of glass were piercing his skin. He welcomed the pain.

  The ghosts were free.

  And they were relentless.

  His parents were gone.

  All he had was his grandfather

  And his brothers.

  Life would be so much easier if there was a map to get through it, but when he wasn’t given one, he’d followed the only family he had left.

  And was led to this place.

  A crossroads.

  He knelt amidst the broken glass and memories for the next hour, feeling guilty as hell, and sad.

  Because that was the thing about death.

  It haunted the living.

  Until they mourned it.

  And the more it was ignored.

  The bigger it grew.

  Until survival was damn near impossible.

  It loomed over Brock’s body like a vicious storm, and he didn’t have a damn clue how to get over it.

  Which was why he said the yes.

  His yes’s were because of this stupid stuffed animal.

  And the picture.

  He held onto them for dear life and stared.

  An hour later, he realized that Jane had returned, and put a blanket over his shoulders.

  When he finally acknowledged her, she handed him a mug of something and lifted a shoulder. “I made it a double.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I know.”

  “No, I’m really, really sorry.”

  “I know.” Her smile wasn’t present—her strength, however, she wore like a beautiful suit of shiny armor.

  “It’s not you.”

  “Drink the whisky, Brock.”

  He sighed and took the mug. “Yes, ma’am.”

  The grandfather clock chimed from downstairs as if to remind them that time wasn’t exactly in their favor. They shared a look as Jane reached across the space between them and gave him her hand.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Jane’s hands were still shaking long after she’d left the room and gone back to his. She was insane.

  She’d just lost her virginity to a man who already had part of her heart, and he’d just yelled at her and had had what seemed to be an emotional breakdown over a dresser drawer.

  The pain obviously had to do with his parents. She wasn’t sure if she should push him and get him to open up again or if she should just leave him. One of her major personality flaws was a need to make everything better, everyone happy, even if it was at her own expense.

  She’d already showered and was limping around trying to find her cleaning bucket, to no avail, when she felt warm hands brace her shoulders.

  Jumping a foot, she nearly fell against the wall before turning around and facing Brock.

  The lines on his face seemed more pronounced. He’d never appeared old to her, but in that moment he seemed…haunted.

  “Jane, I’m so sorry,” he said again, hanging his head.

  She shrugged. “We all have our things, right?”

  His expression didn’t change. Instead he just stared at her, as if she was a complicated math problem, or a Rubik’s Cube. His frown deepened. “Jane, it’s more than that, it’s—”

  “Death,” she whispered hoarsely, looking down at her shoes.

  Brock nodded silently, his chin dipping toward his chest before he exhaled and reached for her hand. “Come on.”

  She let him pull her away from her work because being with him, being there for him, this complicated man, was the most important thing she could think of doing.

  He wrapped an arm around her and helped her walk toward the end of the hall until they came to the master suite.

  “My parents’ room.”

  She gasped. “I’m staying in your parents’ old room?”

  His nod was jerky as his eyes roamed from left to right, as if it was too painful for him to look at any one thing for too long.

  He’d cleaned up the glass on the floor but the plaid shirts remained, along with the stuffed dog.

  She hobbled over to the dog and picked it up, holding it close to her chest.

  “One of my dad’s last gifts.”

  “I wouldn’t take you as a stuffed animal kind of guy,” she said with a bit of humor, squeezing the dog against her chest.

  “I was twelve.” He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “My parents were often away on business, so my dad always gave me a stuffed animal before he left, a different guard animal each time. I was always so stressed about the responsibility of taking care of my brothers that my dad said it was only fair I have so
meone to look after me, too, for me to lean on.”

  Pain sliced through Jane’s chest. “What about your grandfather?”

  “He’s so strong. Always has been.” Brock shrugged. “I felt weak telling my grandfather it scared me every time my parents were gone, that every time I waved good-bye I was afraid it would be the last.” His smile was sad. “My greatest fear eventually happened. I gave power to it, and it destroyed us all.”

  “Bullshit.” The word escaped Jane’s mouth before she could stop it.

  “Jane, you don’t understand. My dad gave me my dog before he broke the news that we were moving. I said some ugly things, horrible things. I told him no. I told him I wouldn’t do it. I threw the dog at him. Said I hated him.” Just repeating the words seemed difficult for him, like he was re-living the moments over again.

  “I still call bullshit,” she said in a strong voice.

  Brock’s eyes widened a bit.

  To be honest she surprised herself a bit, too.

  Hugging the dog closer, she shook her head. “That’s stupidity at its finest and you know that.” Her heart broke for the boy who had held this dog close then thrown it out of anger. Of course he was angry. The ranch had been one of his favorite places. She knew that now.

  “Do I?”

  “Yes.” She turned on her good leg and poked him in the chest. “Believe what you want, but accidents are just that: accidents. And I highly doubt your parents would want you sitting here mourning their loss rather than living your life.”

  He blinked. “And what would your parents say?”

  She gulped, her nostrils flaring. “I took over the family business. I’m pretty sure my dad would be proud.”

  “And what about the sister situation?”

  She broke eye contact. “We all have our weaknesses.”

  “Is it bad, do you think,” he asked, pulling her into his arms, tilting her chin up, “that both our weaknesses just happen to be family?”

  Jane slumped against him. “I had really good intentions. Good intentions that turned into this habitual need to make sure everyone around me was happy.”

  “Everyone except you,” Brock pointed out. “Because I highly doubt you’re happy making toast for two bitchy sisters.”

  She smirked. “They are bitches. But they’re my bitches.”

  He chuckled softly. “Don’t be angry, but hearing you say that kind of turned me on.”

  She swatted him with the dog and pulled away. “And you? Do you think your parents would be proud of the way you’ve allowed your grandfather to rule your life?”

  “I think…” He paused. “They would be proud of the way I’ve kept the family together, and kept the twins out of federal prison, yes.”

  “And your happiness?” She glanced over her shoulder. “What about that?”

  “The thing about happiness is this.” He slid his arms around her and pulled her close. “Sometimes it’s in the place you least expect it, like in a house full of ghosts and with a girl who carries bleach in her purse.”

  “How do you know I carry bleach in my purse?”

  “You like things clean,” he said and smiled. A real smile. “Lucky guess.”

  She tensed in his arms as she realized how well he already knew her, how he was inching himself into her life and making it nearly impossible for her to stop what was happening between them—not that she wanted to. But the very fact that he had so much power over her already was terrifying.

  “Jane, I’m so damn sorry. I hope you know that. You’re…you’re perfect and I yelled, ruining the entire evening. Holding you in my arms feels so right that I don’t ever want to let go.” His lips found her ear. “I’m sorry I yelled. I was just taken back, but now that the scent of my father’s shirts has worn off, and the dog doesn’t look as threatening, I get it. They’re just things. Sometimes things catch you off guard, though. I was prepared for the pictures in the house—or at least I thought I was, even the blinds—but the dog? It just reminded me of that moment, a moment that I’ve always wished I could take back. A moment I’ve always blamed myself for.”

  She burrowed her head into his neck and sighed. “Now I’m the one who’s sorry, I wish I could make the pain go away.”

  “You already have.” He smiled, “Besides, I think I’d rather spend my energy making love to you than fighting ghosts that you seem to be able to push away with one kiss.”

  “You can’t fight a ghost, you know.” She tried to ignore the way her body was already responding and yearning for more of his touch. “You make peace with them.”

  “I may need help doing that. I’m not really sure what peace looks like.”

  Jane hung her head, fully aware that what she was going to say applied to her—and her situation with her family—as much as it applied to him.

  “Peace looks like letting go, Brock.”

  * * *

  Jane was behind on cleaning, which meant that she needed Brock’s help more than she wanted to admit, because it also meant she had to spend more time with him.

  And she wanted to, she really did.

  But the more she got to know him the harder she fell, even though she tried not to. Not because she didn’t want to fall for him, but because a part of her was afraid that he would leave—or that the end wouldn’t be happy. Even though his kisses promised a future, she was still afraid to hope for one.

  He was funny—really funny, but in a way that wasn’t flashy. He didn’t need to be the center of attention, even though he often was. He was happy standing in the background.

  Just like she was.

  It wasn’t fair.

  It felt like every time he kissed her, he took pieces of her heart away. And she knew that when he returned to his normal life he would either have to explain her to his grandfather and hope for the best, or realize that maybe a maid wasn’t the best type of match for someone like the great Brock Wellington.

  She wasn’t sure if she could take that loss on top of the death of her father, the realization that her sisters weren’t ever going to care for her the way she cared for them, and the start of a life where she might have to go against her father’s dying wish. What if she lost Brock, too? It would break her.

  She wasn’t just falling for him romantically, but he’d become a friend, someone she could talk to. A face she looked forward to seeing every morning and kissing every night.

  It had been two days since they’d initially slept together, followed by two more glorious nights in bed.

  And now they only had one week left together.

  The days were already going too fast, folding into one another. Before she knew it—before she was ready—they would both pack their bags, shake hands and drive their separate cars back to the city.

  “You’ve been scrubbing that same spot on the floor for the past few minutes,” Brock said, casting a shadow over her. “I think you’ve done the best you can do. Maybe move on? Either that or keep going and you’ll end up in China.”

  She tossed the sponge back into the bucket and turned, hands on hips. “Are you trying to tell me how to do my job?”

  “Absolutely.” He nodded. “After all, I’m a professional cleaner now.”

  “One room, Brock. You cleaned one room.”

  “And it shines. You can eat off those damn floors.”

  Jane shook her head. “You didn’t even finish!”

  “Priorities, Jane.” He dipped his head, brushing a kiss across her mouth. “I was distracted.”

  “And now?” she asked, breathless. “You want to distract me?”

  “Is it working?” He kissed her again.

  “Brock!” She pushed against his chest. “I have to work.”

  “You’re fired.”

  She gasped.

  “Was it something I said?”

  Angry, she turned away and kept cleaning. The room filled with tense silence but she kept scrubbing; this time she moved to a different spot.

  “Jane?”

 
; Scrub, scrub, scrub. Hot tears ran down her cheeks.

  “Jane?” Brock knelt down. “Shit, Jane, don’t cry. I’m sorry. I was teasing.”

  “Well, it’s not funny.” She refused to look at him. “Did you ever wonder why I took the job in the first place? Yes, it was an escape from my crazy family, but I need the money. Don’t fire me because you want more time for sex. I know you were joking, but it just…it just reminded me that we’re from two very different worlds. You may think nothing of it, but it’s my life, Brock. This is my life.”

  “Damn it, Jane. I would never… You know I care about you. I really was teasing.”

  She nodded.

  He reached for her. “Hey, look at me.”

  She shook her head.

  “Jane…”

  “Brock…”

  He finally grabbed hold of her and turned her to look at him. His face was apologetic, and so handsome it hurt to stare at him. “You aren’t fired.” He sighed. “But…” He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “I think you missed a spot.”

  With a gasp she threw the sponge at his face.

  It splashed against his chest, leaving a wet mark across his nice white shirt. “Oops, it slipped.”

  “Oh?” His eyebrows shot up. “It seems to me like you took at least two seconds to aim, but sure, it slipped.”

  “Completely.”

  “Liar.”

  She splashed some of the soapy water into his face. “See? All clean.”

  “One.” His voice was calm, too calm. “Two.”

  “Brock!” She held her hands out in front of her. “Calm down.”

  “Three.” He stood.

  She tried to scurry backward, but he was too fast. Suddenly he was on her and the bucket was in midair.

  “You wouldn’t.” She lifted her chin in defiance, just as he dumped the entire bucket’s contents over her head.

  She couldn’t even see, but she could hear his laughter. “Oops.”

  “You bastard!” she roared, wiping at her eyes. She locked her gaze onto his amused face for a few seconds before running over to the kitchen faucet and grabbing the sprayer.

  “Now, Jane!” Brock held up his hands. “Don’t overreact—”

  She sprayed him directly in the face.

  He cursed, blindly reaching for her, and then slipped on the already wet floor.