by Katee Robert
She didn’t know what to do with this Brock. The one who had appeared yesterday after the fiasco of a scavenger hunt, and he didn’t show any signs of disappearing. He was being…nice.
The car he led her to wasn’t a car at all. She laughed, a few of the many things weighing her down disappearing. “You do nothing halfway, do you?”
“Never.” He moved to open the passenger door of the huge red truck. Of course it was a truck. What kind of country boy worth his salt would drive anything as mundane as a Corolla?
If they hadn’t already had sex, she’d take this opportunity to make a comment on his overcompensating for something. Too bad she knew he had nothing to compensate for. Regan climbed into the truck and dropped her purse on the floorboard. She might be more familiar with the insides of cabs than actual trucks, but even she could tell that this had plenty of aftermarket things done to it. Trucks didn’t come this high out of the dealership, and the windows were definitely tinted.
He cranked over the engine and then they were off, cruising out of the massive parking lot and down the winding road to the highway that would lead into the nearest town.
They drove for a few minutes before the quiet got to her. But what could she say? Sorry I keep turning you down, but I’m not sorry at all because you don’t fit in with the plan I have for my life. Logan does. Funny, but she’d barely seen Logan the last two days and it wasn’t as if she was wasting away from the lack.
“What do you do for fun?” She was so surprised by the question, she just stared at him. Brock raised his eyebrows, that damn grin coming out. “Don’t look so surprised. Unlike you, I don’t make a habit of sleeping with women I don’t like.”
“We’d exchanged all of two words before that night. How the hell did you know if you liked me or not?”
“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not an idiot, and I’m just as good at sitting back and taking stock of a situation as Reed or Colton is. I just generally don’t have the patience for it.”
She was struck by the image of those three boys raising hell. From what she’d gleaned from Sophie, Colton and his little sister spent their summers in Tennessee, which was where he met Reed and Brock. What a trio that must have made, Colton with his schemes, Reed knocking heads together and brooding, and Brock… Well, she suspected Brock was content to just be along for the ride.
For the first time, she wondered if that wasn’t by choice rather than laziness. If he spent all his time with those other two strong personalities, he couldn’t possibly be as big of a waste of space as she’d originally thought. Could he?
She shifted, aware she’d been quiet too long. “Fine. I’ll play. How did you know you liked me?”
“Because, even surrounded by other beautiful women, you stood out. You carry yourself as if you expect people to notice you, and you’re obviously more than capable.”
She shrugged, almost disappointed. What had she expected? So she caught his eye—she’d known that before he said anything since he wasn’t the type of man to approach a woman out of boredom. It was her job to catch people’s attention and make sure they sat still long enough to listen to her pitch. Once she had their attention, it was often child’s play to convince them that they did, in fact, want the job she was offering.
Brock kept talking, interrupting her thoughts. “The crazy thing, though, is how you hold yourself apart. It’s obvious you’ve busted ass to get where you are—you don’t have the look of old money, but your clothes are all name-brand. Could be credit card debt, but someone as independent as you are isn’t going to let herself be beholden to anyone, let alone some company. So I’d say you’re a workaholic, but you must love your job because you don’t have that overworked, burned-out look.” He paused. “I’d reckon you’re pretty damn lonely, too. All your friends live in different states, and a work ethic like that doesn’t lend itself to a whole lot of free time.”
She could only stare. Her friends knew bits and pieces of that, but they’d known her for a million years. She’d never once had a near stranger come in and strip her bare like this. Frankly, she wasn’t sure she liked it. “That’s a whole lot of assumptions.”
“Not really. Like I said, I’m not stupid and I’m also not blind. You can tell a lot about a person just by watching for a little bit.”
It was a trick she knew well since she used it often enough. She was just surprised by how much he’d seen. It was something she might expect from Reed—that man had the flavor of someone who saw everything—but not happy-go-lucky Brock.
She’d underestimated him.
Which meant she might have missed something else along the way. Regan forced a smile, hating that he had her second-guessing herself. She wasn’t used to it. Once she had a plan, she ran with it. No fuss, no muss. Because she was rarely—if ever—wrong.
Except maybe she was actually wrong this time?
Chapter Nine
After another fifteen minutes of silence, Brock pulled into Edwards. After he’d given his reasons for singling her out in a crowd, Regan had retreated inside her own head. He’d been hunting enough to know when to show patience, though his father would be the first to say it was a trait he didn’t have nearly enough of. That wasn’t true. In reality, Brock just didn’t find things worth being patient over all that often.
Regan was one of them.
The shock on her face when he spoke his piece was reward in a way. She made the mistake a lot of people around him did—she assumed that because he had a Southern accent and a laid-back attitude that it meant he had nothing occupying the space between his ears.
He was so goddamn tired of everyone around him thinking he had nothing to offer.
Even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew where the fault lay—with him. Brock was the one who decided, at the tender age of twelve, that he was done trying. He’d brought home a six-point buck that fall, so damn proud that he’d bagged a prize any adult would brag about. His father had only shaken his head and turned away, using that opportunity to inform Brock that his older brother had won a national debate or some shit.
That was the moment he realized nothing he did would ever be good enough for his father. It didn’t matter that the man had two sons, each with his own strengths. All the old man was able to see was Caine, his heir in every way.
So Brock vowed to never to seek his father’s approval again. He’d stopped killing himself over homework, and graduated with a B average—the ultimate disappointment, despite lettering all four years of high school in both football and track. He’d actually been courted by a few different scouts for football in college, but he’d turned them all down—which his dad had seen as evidence of his inability to commit. When it came to his old man, he was damned if he did, damned if he didn’t.
“This will work.” Regan’s words brought him out of the ugly spot his mind had become.
“Okay.” The thing was—he didn’t resent his brother. His brother could have been the biggest dick in the world and lorded their father’s approval over Brock. He hadn’t. Hell, Caine had never missed one of his games or meets, even though he’d gone to college over an hour away.
Enough. The reason you’re on this goddamn shopping trip is to get closer to Regan. Let go of the past and focus on the now.
She was out of the truck almost before he put it in park, jumping to the pavement in a ridiculously graceful move, considering she was once again wearing five-inch heels. He didn’t know how she managed to walk in them without limping, but he appreciated it. Today they were pointed, a brilliant yellow that faded to black at the heel, and combined with her short black sundress, her legs looked about a mile long.
He wanted to see her in nothing but those fucking heels.
Taking a deep breath, Brock shut off the engine and headed into the fancy chick store she’d disappeared into. Inside, it looked as if the place had been bombed by something pink and glittery. Since he didn’t see Regan cruising through the dresses at the front, he headed deeper into t
he store, feeling like a trespasser. Places like this weren’t meant for men—that was for damn sure.
A middle-aged woman leaned against the counter with the register, flipping through a magazine. When she caught sight of him, her eyes lit up. “Well, hello there, handsome.”
Brock wasn’t sure how he felt about being eye-fucked by a woman the same age as his mother, but he was leaning toward traumatized. He took a step back when she made as if to come around the counter. “I’m just looking for my friend, ma’am.”
If anything, her expression became more avid. “Oh my, what an accent you have.”
Damn it. Where the hell was Regan? He cast a glance around, but she was nowhere to be seen. She wouldn’t bolt through the back and leave him to the tender mercy of this saleswoman, would she?
Holy shit, she definitely would.
He started for the front door, determined to wait this out in the car, but the saleswoman somehow appeared in front of him. She smiled as she moved in closer to squeeze his arm, engulfing him in a wave of floral perfume. “Now, honey, don’t be hasty. Whatever it is your friend wants, I’m sure we have it here. I’ll just need some pertinent details. Like…is this a girlfriend?”
He opened his mouth to lie through his teeth, but a voice from an angel sounded at the back of the store. “Brock, baby, what’s taking you so long?”
Regan sailed into view, a bright smile on her face. Only the twinkle in her eyes let him know how amusing she found his predicament. She could laugh her ass off as long she got him out of this situation without him having to scrape this woman off of him—or hurt her feelings. She swept between them, slipping her arm around his waist. “Trust my boyfriend to get lost in a sea of women’s clothing. Men.”
A disappointed look flitted over the saleswoman’s face, but she managed a smile of her own. “Don’t I know it? My ex-husband hated places like this—wouldn’t even darken the door.”
“I’m really lucky this one tolerates women things as well as he does.” She gave his hip a squeeze, as if he were a cute puppy—or a piece of meat. “Come along, baby. We don’t have a lot of time before we have to be back for the wedding.” She towed him behind her to the back wall, which was covered in women’s shoes.
He dropped into the single chair in the corner with a loud exhale. “Thank you.”
Regan glanced behind her. “I’m surprised you needed a save.”
Normally he wouldn’t have. He’d have smiled at the saleswoman, flirted a little bit, and extracted himself. But on the heels of his dark thoughts, he hadn’t been able to manage even that. He didn’t really want to talk about those, though. “Every man has his moments of being caught flat-footed.”
She gave him a look that said she saw right through him, and he could only hope it wasn’t the truth. He couldn’t stand the thought of Regan knowing his story and thinking less of him. Or worse, pitying him. He didn’t need her pity and he sure as fuck didn’t need her approval.
But that was his problem—not hers. And they had developed a fragile truce this morning that he wasn’t willing to break for the sake of his issues.
So he sat back and watched Regan pick through the shoe selection. She gave it a surprising amount of concentration, examining and discarding shoe after shoe. When she caught him watching, she actually blushed. “Sorry this is taking so long, but I can’t pick just anything if Christine’s ankle is screwed up. We need comfortable and stylish. And if this is all I can do to help, then I’m going to do it right.”
“By all means.” He motioned at her to continue. In reality, he didn’t mind waiting. It was a welcome change from the resort and the hectic schedule of activities. That said, he was enjoying this week far more than he’d expected to—and he couldn’t help but admit that was mostly because of the woman in front of him.
Then he registered what she’d just said. Brock crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair. “This is important.”
She didn’t look up. “So important Julie sent you instead of calling me herself.”
Holy shit. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Regan’s feelings were hurt. She set another pair of shoes aside while he considered that. If he were pettier, he’d push at her about this, maybe tease her about her fear of the woods, but he didn’t want to. She’d been actually afraid yesterday, and she was actually hurt this morning. Instead of poking at her, he wanted to comfort her.
The woman had obviously broken his mind. That was the only explanation.
“Sometimes in the middle of a chaotic event—”
“Oh God, Scarlett. You don’t have to explain. I get it. I’m just having a pity party.” She gave him a surprisingly soft smile. “I’m fine, but thanks for trying to make me feel better.”
That smile hit him in the gut, and he could barely choke out the words, “No problem, darlin’.”
About thirty minutes later—time he desperately needed to get a hold of himself—she held up a pair. “These will work.” They looked a bit like gladiator sandals—if gladiators had been into rhinestones—with a crisscross strap over the toes. The heel was solely straps that must lace up the calf. Regan dropped them into their box. “Even if Christine’s ankle is swollen, these will fit. And they shouldn’t hurt her more than she’s already hurting.”
“I think they’re perfect.”
“Obviously. I picked them.” She laughed and handed him the box, followed by three others.
He frowned, ready to focus on anything but how good trying to comfort her had made him feel. “How do you know Sophie’s size?” It made sense for her to know her friends’, but she’d just met Colton’s little sister.
“Oh please. Give me a little credit. She’s an eight dress and I’ll eat my Jimmy Choos if she’s not a seven and a half in shoes.”
“You amaze me.”
“Well, duh. That’s because I’m amazing.” She led the way to the register. “We’ll take these, please.”
Brock stepped up and reached for his wallet. “I got it.”
She shot him a look. “That’s not necessary.”
“It has nothing to do with being necessary and everything to do with my wanting to help. You picked the shoes. Let me pay for them.”
For a long moment, it looked like she was going to argue. Then she finally sighed. “Knock yourself out.”
The sales woman’s fingers brushed Brock’s a little longer than strictly necessary as he took the bags, and he practically shoved Regan out the door in front of him in his effort to get the hell out of there.
She couldn’t stop laughing as he held the truck door open for her. “Oh my God, the look on your face. You’d think she was a whole lot scarier than a woman who looks like she’d love to make you cookies.”
“Very funny.”
“It is. You’re a panty-dropper. You can’t be surprised when women throw themselves at you.”
He shut the door and rounded the front of the truck, trying to formulate his answer. She was right. He had women come on to him with some regularity. It had never bothered him before.
But then, he’d never been called a panty-dropper by the one woman he couldn’t get out of his head before, either. He didn’t want other women looking at him—he wanted Regan looking at him.
It didn’t make any damn sense.
Brock climbed into the truck and stared at the steering wheel. “I haven’t left a trail of broken hearts behind me.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You don’t have to justify yourself to me.”
Maybe not, but he wanted her to understand. “I had some wild times back in my twenties—maybe more than my fair share—but I haven’t been part of that lifestyle for years now. I don’t sleep around. I don’t drink more than a few beers here and there. I haven’t—” He cut himself off before he could blurt out that he hadn’t been with anyone in months. Not until Regan.
The amusement fled her face. “I’m not your mommy. I don’t care if you were with a different woman every night for the last ten years.”
>
But the fucked-up thing was that he wanted her to care. Because if she didn’t care about any women he’d been with it was because she didn’t care about him, and hell if that truth didn’t stick in his throat.
Brock threw the truck into gear and pulled out of the parking lot, a slow simmering frustration making him grip the wheel too tight. He wanted. Christ, but he wanted.
Regan made a strange noise. “Okay, that was a lie.” She rushed on before he could question her. “I do care. I hate that I do, but I care if you banged your way through an army of sluts.” She took a shuddering breath. “I’m…I’m glad you haven’t.”
He jerked the wheel into the first side street he saw, driving down it until there was no risk of someone walking by casually. He slammed the truck into park and turned to her. “I haven’t touched anyone in months. And I’m glad that you care.” Then he hauled her across the seat and into his lap.
Chapter Ten
Regan didn’t know what possessed her to open her mouth and spill, but she’d taken one look at the vulnerability on Brock’s face and all her walls came crashing down. This man, a man who seemed to actually see her, had just bared a part of himself. She couldn’t let her smart-ass comment stand. It wasn’t fair.
Having him haul ass down a side street and yank her into his lap was just icing on the cake.
She straddled him, shivering when he ran his hands up the outside of her thighs. Brock had the look of a man who was drowning and didn’t give a damn. He pulled her closer and kissed her neck. “I’ve never given a fuck about women’s clothing, but I can’t stop obsessing about your goddamn shoes.”
“That’s good, because I’ve been dreaming about your stupid laugh lines.” She cupped the back of his head and moaned as he fitted her hips perfectly against his so that his cock pressed against her center. “Also, this. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this.”
“Mmmm. Me, too.” He let go of her hip to cup her breast. “Has the running helped?”
A breathless laugh escaped her. “No. Not even a little bit.”