Fire In You: Volume Six (Wait for You Series)

by J. Lynn

  He answered on the third ring, his accented voice way too cheery for this time of the morning. “Jillian, my baby girl, are you—”

  “Brock is the new General Manager?” I whispered-yelled into the phone.

  “You’re at the office already? It’s not even eight-fifteen—Wait, Brock is already there too?” He laughed. “That is surprising.”

  “That’s not really important right now.” I took a deep, calming breath. “Brock really is . . . he’s the GM?”

  “I don’t think you really need to ask that question,” he responded. “Especially when you know the answer to it.”

  Closing my eyes, I held the phone so tightly I was surprised it didn’t shatter into a million pieces. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Would it have a made a difference?” he asked.

  Yes. A thousand times yes, but I didn’t say that. I refused to admit that. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You’re going to have to ask him that.” There was a pause. “I didn’t offer you this job because I thought you couldn’t handle working with him or that you would be calling me on your first day, thirty minutes before you should even be there.”

  Ouch.

  “And I’m not saying that to hurt you, hon. You know that. Hurting you is the last thing I’d ever want to do.” There was another gap of silence while I contemplated knocking the computer off my desk with a ninja kick, and then Dad said, “You can do this.”

  Then he hung up on me.

  What in the hell?

  For a moment I didn’t move and then I lifted my chin and saw Brock waiting outside the office. That grin was back on his face as he raised a hand and crooked his finger, motioning me to come out of the office, to come to him.

  My temper flared. Seconds away from flipping him off, I forced myself to gently place my phone on the desk.

  There was a huge part of me that couldn’t believe this was happening, but I had to face the fact that Brock—one of the main reasons why I’d left Philly, the man I’d loved with every ounce of my stupid little being and the man who broke my heart—was not just back in my life, he was also my boss.

  Holy crap, this was like worse than a nightmare.

  I had two options at this point.

  Option one included me grabbing my purse, walking out of the office, whopping Brock over the head with the thing, and then driving straight to the unemployment office and then on to an epic job search. That option scared me, because hello, being jobless was not exactly a smart move, but having to see Brock five days a week also wasn’t a smart move. And his hard head would probably damage my purse.

  Walking out of here meant no more wet food at all for Rhage.

  Or new purses for me.

  Option two required that I gain some lady balls and deal with the cards dealt, and I’d obviously done that before, to some extent. I was standing here today, and even though my life hadn’t panned out exactly like I’d expected it, I was a walking miracle. Dealing with Brock was by no means the hardest thing I’d had to stare down. I was finally where I felt like I needed to be.

  I was finally starting to live outside the pages of my favorite books.

  Brock had chased me out of my home, away from my family and friends, and out of my family business.

  No, I told myself. That wasn’t exactly true. I made the decision to run from my home, away from my family and friends, and from my family legacy. That was all me.

  Choosing to stay meant Fancy Feast for Rhage, a new purse or two for me eventually, and a job that would actually mean something to me.

  But this option, staying here and working for Brock, terrified me. Not just because it truly forced me to move on from the mess that was our past, but also because it would inevitably require that I actually face it.

  Obviously, I admittedly had a habit of not doing that.

  There was a third option, I realized. I could stay and do this job while looking for a new one if being around Brock was just . . . well, too much.

  Squaring my shoulders, I decided I was going to exist somewhere between option two and three and I walked around my desk and to the door, joining Brock.

  “What?” I asked, my tone sharper than I intended.

  One eyebrow arched. “Watching you in there, it seemed like you were deciding between toppling the desk and breaking a window or walking out here and staying, working for your family like you always wanted to.”

  I sucked in an unsteady breath, split between wondering if I was as transparent as a glass door and being extremely uncomfortable with the reminder of how well Brock knew me.

  “So,” he said, dipping his head slightly as he stepped in. He was so close I could feel the heat from his body. “What did you decide, Jillian?”

  Forcing myself to hold his gaze, I ignored the way every inch of my body was immediately aware of Brock, like it had been the moment I started seeing him as more than just a boy who was supposed to be like a brother to me. “I’m staying.”

  “Good.” His smile was slow and soft. “That’s what I was hoping to hear.”

  “Really?” I couldn’t believe it, because I would think he’d find this just as awkward.

  He studied me a moment and then said, “Let’s chat.”

  My mouth opened, with my initial instinct driving me to refuse, but I snapped my mouth shut and nodded. I may have been a coward when it came to Brock and all that, but I wasn’t stupid. He was my boss now, and I wouldn’t get myself fired. I wouldn’t embarrass my father like that.

  Brock stepped aside and then moved to my left side as I followed him to the GM’s office—to his office. He held the door open for me, and waited until he was back on my left side before he spoke. At dinner Friday evening, he didn’t seem to remember or realize I couldn’t hear half of what he’d been saying. Did someone remind him?

  “Have a seat,” he offered.

  Looking around the office, I realized today was not Brock’s first day here. No way. It wasn’t the fact that his desk was covered with neat stacks of paper or that a gym bag rested in the corner, next to a pair of sneakers. It was the pictures on the fully stocked credenza—framed photos of Brock proudly holding a champion belt high. Another photo of him with his arm around my father, both wearing sponsor shirts and beaming at the camera. Several more photos of Brock with my uncles—

  My breath caught.

  There, in the middle of all those photos, was a picture I recognized immediately, because it used to be mine. It used to sit on my nightstand back home, because it had been my favorite picture of Brock and me.

  Brock was in a tux, his hair a spiky, glorious mess, and I was standing next to him, in a deep red ankle-length gown with a heart-shaped neckline. It was from my senior prom, and I couldn’t stop staring at it, because that night, I felt beautiful. I felt like I belonged on Brock’s arm. But it was more than that. That night, I’d been confident. I’d been strong. I’d been full of possibilities.

  Without realizing what I was doing, I walked over to the credenza and reached out to pick up the photo, but stopped short of touching it. “How . . . how did you get this?”

  “You left it behind the last time you left.” There was a constricted pause, and then he said, “Considering what you said to me the last time we were standing this close, I figured you wouldn’t care if I took it.”

  A knot of emotion formed in my throat and I had to look away from the photo. He’d been in my old bedroom? Obviously. I had no idea why he had that photo here, but I couldn’t focus on it. My gaze focused on a large flat-screen TV hanging on the wall opposite the desk. Why in the world did he need a TV in his office?

  Wait.

  A more important observation kicked in, and my head flew back toward the credenza. There wasn’t a single picture of his fiancée or them together. I glanced at his desk. Nothing there.

  Interesting.

  Wait again.

  Not interesting. Not at all. Not even remotely.

  I cleared my throat as
I walked back to the chair and sat down. “When . . . when did you start here?”

  “Three weeks ago.” Instead of walking behind his desk, he leaned against the front of it, lazily crossing one ankle over the other as his hands clasped the edge of the desk. “But all of this isn’t officially mine until Andre leaves at the end of the week.”

  My jaw was probably on the floor. “And when were you hired to become the GM?”

  He eyed me curiously. “About a year ago, when Andre first announced his plans to return home.”

  I would’ve fallen out of my seat if I weren’t sitting down. “And no one thought to tell me this?”

  Brock inclined his head to the side. “Well, before you took the position, why would anyone tell you? Now, let me finish.” He held up his hand when I opened my mouth. “You and I might not have spoken in years, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been around. You know that. So you know I’ve been aware that up until Andrew convinced you to take this job, you’ve completely distanced yourself from the Academy.”

  Okay. He had a point there. “But he could’ve mentioned the fact that you were the new GM for months now. Or you could’ve said something Friday night.”

  “I could’ve.” Brock gave me that grin, the one that used to make me blush and act like a fool. My eyes narrowed now. That grin increased. “Actually, I asked Andrew not to tell you.”

  That was an unexpected answer. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I knew you’d never agree to coming on board if you knew,” he answered with some hesitation.

  My hands opened in my lap as I tried to think of something to say, and I finally settled on, “I have no idea how to respond to that.”

  Brock’s gaze flickered over my face and the line of his jaw softened. “It’s been a really long time since you and I have sat and talked to one another. I know you have every reason to hate me. I don’t blame you.”

  “I don’t hate you.” That twisting motion in my chest picked up. What I had said was true. Maybe at one point I did. Okay. I’m sure I had, but I’d never been one to hate anyone. It just wasn’t in me. Well, I hated plenty of fictional characters, but some people would claim they didn’t count. I drew in a shallow breath and repeated, “I don’t hate you.”

  Brock was still as he stared at me, a flicker of surprise and relief mingling across his chiseled features. “I’m . . . I’m glad to hear that.”

  I pushed all that mess aside and focused. “Why are you even the GM? You’ve probably made enough money to live a very, very long time without having to worry about a paycheck.”

  “I have. When I retired from professional fighting two years ago, I could’ve lived quite comfortably for the rest of my life.”

  I wanted to ask why he’d retired so young. At his age, he still had a couple of more years left, but I resisted the urge. “So why take this job?”

  A frown started to appear. “Do you really need to ask me that?” Before I could respond, he lifted a hand, thrusting his fingers through his hair as he said, “Your father saved my life. That’s not an exaggeration. You know that. If it hadn’t been for him, I would’ve died on those streets. The Academy became my life and it is a part of me. This company is important to me, and even if I’m not fighting, representing the Academy, I still need to be a part of it.”

  Lowering my gaze, I squirmed in my chair. Of course I knew that. No matter what had happened, that would’ve never changed for him.

  “I love scouting, looking for fresh talent,” he continued. “As the GM, I can still do that. I can give back to your father for everything he did for me. I need to do that. Especially considering how badly I let him down.”

  “How in the world did you let my father down?” I asked, genuinely curious. “You’ve won championships for him. Brought so much attention to the—”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.” Tone serious, he held my gaze. “You never told him why you were at Mona’s that night.”

  I stilled.

  “If you had, he would’ve—”

  My eyes snapped to his. “Brock.”

  “And I would’ve deserved everything I had coming to me,” he continued, leaning forward. “And the only reason why I never told him you were there because of me was because you made me promise not to.”

  Closing my eyes, I pressed my lips together. I had made him promise not to say a word. I’d begged him, because I knew what would happen if he’d been honest. Brock would’ve lost everything.

  The knot was back, expanding in my throat. I couldn’t sit here and think and talk about these kinds of things if I was going to be able to make this job work. Curling my hands together, I opened my eyes. “What happened back then has nothing to do with now. It can’t.”

  Brock leaned back and straightened.

  “And I don’t want to talk about it,” I continued, struggling to keep my voice steady. “We don’t need to talk about any of that for us to work together.”

  He was silent for a moment, his body deviously relaxed, but he was like a coiled cobra, and could strike at any moment. “I don’t agree with that, but I’ll let it go.”

  Some of the tension seeped out of my shoulders even though I had a feeling there was an unspoken “for now” at the end of what he said. “That’s all, then? I would like to get my office set up and get to work.”

  Brock nodded and pushed off the desk. Walking around it, he scanned the paperwork on his desk. “I do believe we have a meeting today with the sales team. Two o’clock.”

  “Sounds good.” I rose on oddly shaky legs and turned to the door. Everything felt surreal.

  “Jillian.”

  Stopping, I faced him. “Yes?”

  His shoulders rose with a deep breath as his gaze drifted over my face once more, and I wondered what he thought about how I looked now. “I really want this to work for us, Jillian,” he said, and I felt the very sharp twisting motion in my chest give one powerful stab. “It’s a second chance for us.”

  Chapter 8

  “Are you sure that’ll be okay?” Avery asked as I watched Rhage prowl across the living room floor. “I just feel like I’m not giving you a lot of notice.”

  Readjusting my phone to my left shoulder, I picked up my feet and curled them under me before Rhage decided that whatever he was doing wasn’t as interesting as attacking my legs would be. Sometimes I thought he mistook my legs for scratching posts. “I don’t have anything planned for Friday. It’s fine. What time will you guys be bringing Ava and Alex over?”

  “You’re amazing. You know that?” Avery paused, and I could hear Cam yelling Ava’s name in the background. The child was probably racing through their house or jumping from the top of the staircase. A second later I could hear peals of Ava’s laughter. “How does seven sound?”

  “Perfect.”

  The sound of Cam and Ava’s girlish giggles faded. “So, tell me all about the new job while I have a few minutes.”

  “It’s been good.” It was the following Wednesday, and I’d been at the Academy for a little over a week. Things were going surprisingly well. Mainly because I rarely saw Brock. He was either in his office, door closed, and when he wasn’t, I made an art form out of avoiding him unless I had to deal with him during a meeting. Both of us were pretty busy, and I was focusing on advertising and renting out the additional spaces we had on the second floor. “I’m still getting adjusted, but I’m . . . I’m happy to be working there.”

  And that was the truth.

  “I’m so happy to hear that—oh, by the way, before I forget, Brock ended up meeting up with Cam on Monday. They had lunch,” she told me, and I guessed that explained why Brock was gone half the afternoon that day. “I think Brock made Cam’s year. So you can thank him for that.”

  “Sure,” I murmured.

  There was a pause. “So, I know you guys kind of grew up together, but I would’ve never guessed it based on the way you acted toward him when he showed up at the restaurant.”

&nb
sp; Unsure of how to answer that question, I watched Rhage drop to the floor and then raise his fluffy behind. He was staring at the wall. When I talked to Avery last week when she called to invite me to breakfast, which I’d ultimately bailed on like a freak, she hadn’t really touched on Brock. I skated by during that conversation without having to talk about him.

  “I was just thinking about it, because I was chatting with Steph last night,” she continued, and I let my head fall back against the couch as I swallowed a groan. Steph worked in the Philadelphia Academy, and when I first met her several years ago, I’d been outrageously envious of her. She was everything I’d wanted to be back then—beautiful, intelligent, kind, beyond confident, and strong, so strong. “She’s coming home to visit her mom soon and we talked about getting together. Anyway, she asked about you,” Avery said.

  “Did she?”

  “Yep,” she replied. “She wondered how you and Brock were getting along. It wasn’t like she was gossiping or anything like that,” Avery quickly added. “I even asked why she was asking that question, and she really didn’t answer, so it made me super curious.”

  While I stared at the ceiling, I saw the framed photo in Brock’s office. Why did he have that photo in his office? The urge to talk about him, to talk to someone, rode me hard. Ever since I left Philadelphia, I never spoke to anyone about Brock. Not even when I saw Abby and Katie, two people who knew just how much I cared for him.

  Talking about Brock brought forth a lot of wonderful memories at the same time that it dragged up things I didn’t want to deal with.

  Right at that moment, I heard a thump and looked over, brows snapping together. Rhage was by the wall, shaking his furry head. Obviously he’d attacked the wall and the wall won that battle. What a dumb cat.

  “You still there, Jillian?”

  “Yeah. Sorry.” I wrapped an arm around my knees. “Brock and I . . . Well, we were really close, but we kind of grew apart.” Okay. That sounded lame and clichéd, and I could do better. Avery deserved that. “All right. If I’m going to be honest, I was—I was in love with Brock and he thought of me as a little sister. He didn’t feel the same way, and our friendship . . . eventually imploded because of it.”