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

  Then Brock kissed me.

  Really kissed me.

  His mouth came down and his lips moved against mine like he was committing the feel of them to memory. My arms unfolded and somehow my hands were back to his chest. He nipped slightly at my lower lip, startling me. I gasped, and then his tongue slipped through the seam of my mouth.

  Now this was a kiss.

  Hot. Hard. Wet. His tongue slipped over mine, and he didn’t so much kiss me as he did devour me. The scratch of his beard and the softness of his lips, the prick and satin, was such a heady mixture, dragging a throaty moan out of me.

  “Fuck,” he groaned, lifting his mouth. “That sound.”

  I couldn’t speak. I opened my eyes and gazed up at him dazedly. I was officially going to count that as our first kiss. Yep. Sounded good.

  Brock held my gaze and then he let go of me. “Hardest thing I’m about to do is walk out of here,” he murmured. “Dream of me tonight.”

  Then he was gone, walking out of my apartment and closing the door behind him, and I was left standing in the center of my living room, my lips tingling from his kiss and my body a riot of unfulfilled desires.

  Go after him.

  I started to but stopped, because I . . . I was scared. Truly terrified by what was happening, because I had lived for so long no longer hoping Brock would wake up interested in me, and now he was. On what level and how deep, I had no idea. I wasn’t sure even he knew, but I wanted him—wanted him more than I ever wanted anyone, because I’d always wanted him and he had never wanted me.

  Until now.

  And what terrified me was the knowledge that if I fell for him again, I would fall deep, and I’d never recover. If I loved him again, I’d be lost forever.

  Chapter 22

  Sleep had not come easily Saturday night. Not with my body wishing it was still pinned between Brock’s hard body and the wall. My mind would not shut down.

  It was close to three in the morning when I finally found a few hours of sleep, and then I rose at the butt-crack of dawn, disturbing a disgruntled Rhage. I let the coffee percolate as I showered, leaving my hair to air dry while I grabbed a can of a fancy food for him since I felt bad for waking him early.

  Rhage appeared to accept my offer of apology by shoving his entire whiskered face into the bowl. Cringing, I watched him, knowing he was going to smell like fake fish or whatever was in that food.

  Taking my cup of coffee with me, I curled up against the arm of the couch, trying not to think about Brock holding me in his lap last night as I picked up my phone. It was early, but I knew my mom would be up.

  She answered on the second ring and immediately assumed the sky was falling. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” That wasn’t necessarily a lie. “I know it’s early, but I . . . I talked to Brock last night.”

  There was a beat of silence as I sipped my coffee, and then she said, “Well, hon, I assume you talk to him quite frequently now.”

  Lowering my mug, I rolled my eyes at her blatant obtuseness. “Mom, he told me you’ve been telling him everything about me over the last couple of years.”

  “I haven’t been telling him everything,” she responded blithely. “That’s an exaggeration.”

  “Is that really all you have to say?” Needing more caffeine to deal with this conversation, I took another drink. “Why didn’t you say anything? He said he told you not to, but Mom, come on.”

  “I didn’t think it was wise to tell you that he was asking about you,” she replied.

  “Why? Because you thought if I knew he was asking about me that I was going to be obsessed with him?”

  “Obsessed? Honey, hold on a second. Your father is about to come in here, and I don’t think he needs to hear this conversation,” she said, and I raised a brow as I chugged my coffee. “Okay,” she said with a heavy sigh, and I figured she was in the sunroom, surrounded by various plants. Mom had a true green thumb while I was the black death to greenery. “Why in the world would I think you’d be obsessed with Brock?”

  “Mom,” I groaned. “Come on. You have eyes.”

  “Yes. I have two functional eyes. You had a crush on the boy growing up, Jillian.”

  A crush didn’t truly represent what I had felt for him, but whatever.

  “I didn’t tell you about him because you made it clear more than once that you didn’t want anything to do with him.”

  Finishing off my coffee, I rose to get a refill and passed Rhage, who was sitting by the coffee table, licking his paw. “If you knew that, then why would you tell him anything?”

  “Because he cared about you—he’s never stopped caring about you. Because he was a part of your life for over a decade, and he’s family to us,” she answered as I poured myself a new cup. “Jillian, I’m sorry if you feel like I shouldn’t have talked to him, but when he asked about you, it was always coming from a good place.”

  Turning, I leaned against the counter and curiosity got the best of me. “What . . . what was he asking about me?” I knew what Brock had told me, but there was a small part of me that needed to hear Mom validate it.

  “He always wanted to know that you were okay. That’s where most of his questions were leading. How you were doing at Shepherd. When you dropped out, he wanted to know what you were planning to do. He’d asked if you had friends,” she said, and I exhaled sharply at the bitter burn in the back of my throat. “I think he needed to know that you were okay and you weren’t alone.”

  Pressing my lips together as I held the phone to my left ear, I slowly shook my head. Truthfully, I wasn’t mad at her. I got why he asked about me. I’d cut him off and out of my life with a rusty butter knife. I got why she told him. Brock had become like a son to her.

  “So what were you two doing having this conversation on a Saturday night?” Mom asked slyly. “Because I’m sure you weren’t at work.”

  “He hijacked a date I had last night.”

  “He did what?” She let out a surprised laugh.

  I sighed. “You remember the guy I was telling you about? Grady? Well, I was on another date and Brock showed up and basically ruined it.”

  “Oh no,” Mom murmured, but it was too subdued. Like I could practically see her grinning from ear to ear.

  “Well, he didn’t really ruin it. I mean, if I was being honest—”

  “And you should be.”

  Wrinkling my nose, I folded an arm across my waist. “Anyway, Grady is nice but . . . it wasn’t going to work out anyway.”

  “Of course not,” she replied.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Let me ask you a question, Jillian. Why are you asking me about Brock? Besides the fact that he told you he was obviously still thinking about you all these years?”

  I shifted my weight from one foot to the next. “Because . . . because he came over last night and—”

  “Did you two have sex?”

  “Oh my God, Mom!” I shrieked, startling Rhage and causing him to jump like one of those Halloween spook cats.

  “What?”

  “What?” I repeated dumbly. “Okay, like I don’t want you ever asking me that again. Ever.”

  She sighed heavily in my ear. “It’s human nature, Jilly. Your father and I have a very active—”

  “Stop. Please stop.” I threw up a little in my mouth. “I don’t want to hear any of that.”

  “Fine. So Brock came over and there was no sex. Did you guys quilt a blanket? Watch Beaches? Did you two even cuddle, because I think he’s the type that likes to cuddle.”

  “Oh my God,” I moaned, close to hanging up on her. “You need to focus.”

  “I am focused.”

  “We just talked—talked about things, and he . . . he seems to be interested in me like more than just friends, and he’s not at all worried about us working together”

  “Well, why would he be worried about you two working together? Not like the Limas have ever separated work and family before,”
she replied dryly. “Brock has been asking about you for six years, honey.”

  “Yeah, and for most of that time he was with someone, so that’s not an indication of anything.”

  “If you say so.”

  I sighed. “Mom.”

  “If you think that means nothing then I’m sure there are things I don’t think he’s talked to you about.”

  “Like what?” I demanded as unease brewed.

  “That’s not my place to go into, hon.”

  “Oh!” I threw an arm up. “It’s not your place to tell me his business, but you told him mine?”

  “Not the same thing,” she repeated.

  “Whatever.”

  “So are you two finally getting together?” she asked.

  Taking a deep breath, I counted to ten before I responded. “No, Mom. We’re not.”

  “I’m confused.”

  I tipped my head back and groaned, “Why?”

  “You love him.”

  I sucked in a sharp breath. “I was in love with him, Mom, but that was a long time ago. I’m not that girl anymore.”

  “You may be a woman now, but that doesn’t mean how you feel about someone has changed.”

  My gaze flipped to the ceiling.

  “And this Grady fellow you went out with, he was a good man, I’m guessing? Attractive. Smart. Interested in you? But you felt nothing for him and it was going nowhere?”

  “Yeah.” I frowned, thinking I knew where this was heading, and this conversation was so not turning out the way I expected it to.

  “You sure you still aren’t in love with Brock? And if it’s not love anymore, you’re not interested? You don’t think about him?” Mom paused. “I want an honest answer.”

  Walking away from the counter, I shuffled out to the living room. “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “That’s not honest.” When I didn’t speak, she said, “Jillian, you’ve been through a lot. I know this, and you’ve been hurt. If I could take that hurt from you, I would.”

  “I know.” I walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. I stared at the woods behind the apartment complex.

  “And that hurt—the kind Brock laid down on you and the kind you physically suffered—obviously would have you hesitating,” she said as I watched the bare branches sway in the wind. “I don’t blame you for that. No one would, but it shouldn’t stop you from taking risks.”

  Chewing on my bottom lip, I said nothing because going there with Brock was a huge risk.

  “Living is all about taking risks, Jillian. Isn’t that what you’re trying to do? To start living again?”

  Part of me wished I’d never told her that when I’d left home for good, because she had a point, damn it.

  “Do you still like him?” she asked again.

  “I . . . I don’t know,” I whispered a bit lamely.

  Mom laughed quietly. “Honey, I think you know how you feel.”

  I thought I did too, because truth was, no matter what, even when I hated him and I hated everything we’d ever shared, I still liked him. I never stopped liking him.

  “Are you driving up with him for Thanksgiving?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, Mom.”

  Her laugh brought a wry smile to my face. “I’ll see both of you soon, and I have a feeling at the exact same moment too.”

  Hanging up the phone after I told her my plans for the day, which involved finally putting together bookcases, I let the curtain fall back in place. Mom made it all sound so simple, but it wasn’t.

  But she was right.

  Living meant taking risks.

  * * *

  Just after three in the afternoon, when I was about to finally put the bookcases together, there was a knock on my apartment door.

  I stepped out into the hall, my stomach flip-flopping around. I wasn’t expecting anyone, but intuition sprung alive. Hurrying to the door, I didn’t bother with the useless peephole. I cracked open the door.

  “Brock,” I whispered.

  “Hey,” he replied with a grin.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, glancing around like the outside hallway held all the answers.

  “Visiting you.”

  My brows lifted.

  “I’m actually here to do my good deed for the day.”

  Having no idea what he was talking about, I stepped aside. “And what would that good deed be?”

  Brock walked into my apartment, and as he passed me, he swooped down and kissed me before I could even process what he was doing. It was sweet and all too brief, but still left me standing there stunned.

  “Kissing me was your good deed?” I finally asked, closing the door.

  He looked over his shoulder at me. “I kind of like the way you think, but no. I’m here to put together your bookcases, because I’m sure you still haven’t done that since you mentioned buying them.”

  “I haven’t,” I admitted. “You remembered that?”

  Brock faced me. “I remember everything, Jilly.”

  A shiver curled its way down my spine, and I looked away. “You seriously came over to put together my bookshelves?”

  “Yep.” There was a pause. “And I wanted to see you.”

  I peeked at him, unsure of what to say.

  “I know I said I’d give you time,” he said after a moment.

  “And this is you giving me time?”

  “Yes.” That half-grin was back, doing funny things to my stomach. “So where are the bookshelves?”

  “In the second bedroom down the hall.” Deciding that if he wanted to put the shelves together, he could have at it. I had no problem supervising.

  Aaand I was kind of, okay sort of, really interested to see him here.

  “I’ll grab some drinks,” I offered, then pivoted around, hurrying off before I could change my mind and ask him to leave, even though I knew I wanted him to stay.

  Gah. Sometimes I made no sense to myself. At all.

  Once I had two bottles of water, I led him into the guest room. It was pretty barren. Just a narrow, single bed that was barely used, a desk in the corner, and a nightstand.

  Brock didn’t comment on the lack of design as he walked toward the pieces of the shelving system. “Where’s your cat?”

  “Probably in my bedroom, under the covers. That’s where he takes his afternoon naps.”

  Brock laughed. “I like that cat.”

  “Yeah, he likes you. Which is weird because that cat hates everyone.”

  “Your cat has good taste.” He slid me a sidelong glance. “Then again, everyone likes me.”

  “Ha. Ha.” I stared at his back and suspicion blossomed. “Did you talk to my mom today?”

  “No.” His brows flew up. “Why? Should I have?”

  I shook my head as I picked up the packet of hardware. Sitting on the bed, I watched him rummage through the boards. I liked how he was dressed, casual in jeans and a fitted thermal. My gaze got hung up on the clear definition of his chest and arms.

  I started thinking.

  Which probably was bad, but whatever.

  Picking up the instructions, he sat on the left side of me, on the bed. “Well, this shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  “It’s not. I’m just lazy.”

  One side of his lips quirked up. “I’m surprised you don’t actually have any bookshelves overflowing with books, to be honest.”

  Turning the packet of bolts and screws over in my hands, I shrugged. “I . . . I just haven’t gotten around to it.”

  “And you’ve lived here how long?”

  “Shush it,” I murmured, fighting a grin.

  “But you’re now doing it?” He dropped the paper on the bed behind him and rose. “Interesting.”

  I had no idea why he found that interesting. “I plan on bringing back a ton of books when I come home from Thanksgiving.”

  “How many is a ton?” he asked while he laid out the shiny gray boards.

  “A crap ton.”

&nbs
p; That grin spread, and damn it all to hell, it was truly a sexy grin. Who had I been kidding when I thought it wasn’t? “Well I hope a crap ton fits in the Porsche.”

  My eyes narrowed. “I never agreed to ride with you.”

  “You will.”

  “You’re awful sure of yourself.”

  The look he shot me screamed he had reason to be. Feeling a little flustered, I eventually stopped supervising and helped as he told me how he was renovating his kitchen.

  “You didn’t buy a newer house? Or have one built?” I asked.

  “Did buy a new house. Wanted something different. Plus, there wasn’t a lot of land available where I wanted,” he explained, spinning the hex key like a pro. “Also wanted to get my hands dirty.”

  I arched a brow as I picked up the shelf and held it in place for him. “Seriously? Since when are you into construction and renovation?”

  “Hey, I know how to use these hands.” He glanced over at me, lashes lowered. “Trust me.”

  My cheeks heated as my stomach wiggled. Yes. Yes, he did. “Why do you have to make everything so . . . so perverted now?”

  Brock laughed. “You think that’s perverted? You haven’t seen anything yet.”

  “Yay. Something to look forward to.”

  Shaking his head, he screwed two pieces together. “Some of the stuff I’m not going to be able to do. I’ve already demolished the kitchen, so it’s been carryout and grilling.”

  “It’s kind of cold for that, isn’t it?”

  “Nah. Doesn’t bother me.” Turning the shelf upright, he rose. “Where did you want this?”

  I showed him. “So is the kitchen completely gutted?”

  “Almost.” He carried the shelf to the wall across from the bed, then turned to the second one and began working at that one. “I’m going to try to rehab the cabinets, so they have to be taken down carefully.”

  Surprise flickered through me as I watched him work to put the shelves in. This was something new about him.

  “You don’t need to look that surprised.”

  “Sorry.” I sat back down on the edge of the bed. “I just didn’t know you were into doing stuff like that.”

  “There’s a lot I’m into that you don’t know about.”

  There he went, saying something that so didn’t sound like a normal comment.