“Apparently.” I lean forward for a piece of popcorn and toss it into my mouth, my concentration aimed at the television and not his beautiful face. On a sigh, I lean back, accepting that if I continue to see him, the constant interruptions are something I’ll have to learn to tolerate.
Silence stretches for a few seconds before Brock lets out a light chuckle.
“What?”
He twirls a piece of my hair. My shoulders go slack, every muscle in my body relaxing.
“The first episode was always my favorite,” he says.
“Wait.” My attention floats between him and the television. “I just opened the DVD. How’s it always been your favorite if you’ve never seen the show?”
A guilty smirk lifts his lips as he leans in and whispers, “Did you honestly think I grew up with the last name Cunningham and had no idea the show existed?”
I feel dizzy, thrown off-kilter by the sweet warmth of his breath. I rake my eyes over him.
His smirk turns into a boyish smile. “With the exception of the first one, which I actually liked, my mother made all of us kids suffer through every episode.”
“You bastard,” I huff, playfully swatting his arm. “You lied to me . . . again. Maybe my nickname for you needs to be Pinocchio?”
“Maybe it does. But that lie got you to sing for me in public.” Amusement lights up his face. “It also has you sitting next to me now, so it’s a lie I’ll never regret telling. When I want something badly enough, I’ll do whatever I have to do to get it. It usually works in my favor.”
“A little high on ourselves, are we?”
“No,” he whispers, his expression striking hot with want.
His eyes shift to my lips, and he slides his thumb across my mouth. Other than the pounding of my heart, I’m positive every organ in me has ceased functioning properly.
“There was a tiny piece of popcorn hanging out on the corner of your lip.”
“Oh,” is all I manage. I watch him suck the minuscule piece of popcorn off his thumb. I’m suddenly jealous of both his thumb and Orville Redenbacher’s creation.
He stares at me a long moment. “Are you mad at me?”
“I am, but I think you know how to seduce me into forgiving you.”
His grin drips sex. “Do you like when I seduce you?”
“Yes, to a point.”
“I do too,” he whispers, lifting his knuckles to my cheek. The featherlight touch sends goose bumps along my skin. “You’re very reactive to me. But I want your forgiveness without having to seduce it out of you.”
“Then you should stop touching me.”
He drops his hand, his grin widening. My attention flits to the screen. It’s the part where Richie finds out Potsie’s fixed him up with Mary Lou.
I bring my eyes back to Brock’s, a weak smile on my lips. “Happy Days has helped a little in the forgiveness department.”
“I thought it might.” He studies me another long moment. “There’s more behind why you like the show as much as you do, isn’t there?”
“No.”
“I think you’re telling me another lie.” He lifts his hand again, this time massaging the back of my neck. I shiver. “Whatever it is, why are you hiding it from me, Ber? Do you not trust me with it?”
“I do, or will eventually. I’m not sure.” I take a breath, a shrug tugging my shoulder. “But we’re all allowed to keep pieces of our pasts to ourselves. If not, what would there be to run after?” Or in my case, run from?
“You think that’s why I’m coming after you? Because you’re keeping pieces of yourself from me?”
I shrug again. “I don’t know why you’re coming after me.”
I honestly don’t. The only thing remotely appealing about me, other than being able to spit my fucked-up past onto paper faster than a writer smoking crack, is that I can fuck, suck, and swallow better than most porn stars. I’m convinced Hugh Hefner would promptly acquire me as his next barely legal wife if he saw me in action.
“I thought it was obvious why I’m coming after you,” Brock says, his voice soft. “You think I intrigue you, but it’s really the opposite.”
“Right.” I nod. “My unseen pieces.”
“No,” he whispers, sliding his hand to my chin. “The beautiful ones you’re unaware you’ve already shown me.”
It’s my turn to stare at him a long moment. Before I can think of a remark psychotic enough to let him know I’m not a mental mess he needs in his life—no matter how clotted up his is—Brock curls his hand around mine and stands me up with him. I pull in a staggering breath, my eyes pinned on his lips.
“You know I’m gonna decode you, right?” He moves a lock of hair off my shoulder. “I hope you do.”
I bring my eyes to his, my words shaky. “You think you can?”
“I know I can. No matter how hard you make the ride, I’m not getting off, so stop trying.” He drags his hand down my waist. “I’m a fighter, and I won’t rest easy until I know I’m securely in that heart of yours. You’re a challenge. Nothing short of trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube in the dark. I like that about you.” He searches my face, his hold tightening as he presses his lips to my forehead. “I think we’re alike in more ways than either of us realizes. That by itself is gonna make us work. Just let it happen.”
He takes me in a second before leading me toward the balcony, my heart thumping with every step. A sticky breeze hits my skin as he pushes open the French doors. The cloudless sky—pregnant with a full harvest moon—casts a silver glow on the harbor below us. Small waves rip against the docks as Brock gestures to a rattan chair. I sit, my body taut with a nervous energy I’m starting to realize comes from being around him.