Meet me at my place. Now.
Yes, it was a demanding text, one I probably would’ve never seen myself ever sending Brock, but I was pissed. I had no idea what Brock had been up to when he stopped by the restaurant. Wanting to talk about Thanksgiving? Utter bullshit.
My hands clenched the steering wheel as I eased out of the small parking lot and turned onto the street, immediately hitting a red light. I didn’t hear my phone ding and I also didn’t check if he had responded, fearing that if he had and gave some excuse to why he couldn’t talk now, I’d drive my car into something.
I fumed the entire drive home. The little part of me that had been left breathless earlier over the fact someone else thought Brock was interested in me had quickly been burned away in fiery irritation.
What he’d done tonight was not cool.
Arriving at my apartment, I climbed out of the car and slammed the door shut. Scanning the parking lot, I didn’t see his car and as I hurried through the chilly air, under the starry night sky, I yanked my phone out of my purse.
Of course, no response.
“Asshole,” I muttered, stomping up the stairwell.
Yeah, there really hadn’t been much of a spark between Grady and me, but that was none of Brock’s business. Not even remotely. And maybe tonight could’ve been the night that that something developed between Grady and me, but that hadn’t happened. Brock showed up, took us all down a quick trip along memory lane, giving Grady the impression that what we had going wasn’t worth investigating further. Reaching my door, I unlocked it and yanked it open, wanting to tear it from the hinges.
Stripping off my jacket, I tossed it over the back of my couch and grabbed the chilled bottle of wine from the fridge. Working the cork out, I took a nice long gulp, forgoing a glass.
Forget the whole not drinking thing for right now.
A small part of me knew that even if Brock hadn’t busted all up into my date like the Kool-Aid dude, a spark wouldn’t have magically appeared between Grady and me. After reading a crap ton of romance books—after knowing what I had for Brock at one point in my life—I was a firm believer in if that special it wasn’t there on the first real date, it most likely was never going to appear.
And that wasn’t even taking into consideration that the nights when I couldn’t sleep and I slipped my hand between my own thighs, it hadn’t been Grady’s face that appeared in my mind.
But still.
I was pissed.
Raising the bottle of wine to my lips again, I jumped and dribbled a little on my chin as I heard a knock on my door.
My heart felt like it was on a trampoline at the same moment my eyes narrowed. Wiping my hand along my chin, I placed the bottle on the island and stalked toward the door, pulling it open.
Brock stood outside, lashes lowered, shielding his gaze.
“That was quick,” I snapped.
His full lips twitched. “Let’s just say I figured you’d be wanting to see me tonight, so I hung around this end of town.”
“Is that so? You’re psychic now?”
Brock lifted his gaze and his lips parted. “Damn,” he exhaled. A strange look crossed his chiseled features, like he was seeing something hidden for the first time. Something he knew always existed but was out of reach. “You and that dress . . .” He stepped into my apartment, forcing me to back up as he closed the door behind him. “I knew you would look beautiful.”
Beautiful?
There was that word again, a word I was sure he knew what it meant.
Skin flushed as I glared at him. “I don’t want to hear you say that. I don’t even want to know that you think that.”
Brock appeared to ignore that statement, because he asked, “When did you get those curves, Jilly?”
Emboldened by my anger, I held my ground. “Oh, I don’t know. When I was nineteen. But you didn’t notice them then, did you?”
“No.” He shook his head, almost in wonder. “I didn’t want to notice.”
My brows flew up. “You didn’t want to? That makes no sense.”
“It doesn’t?” Those dark eyes pierced mine. “You were Andrew Lima’s little girl.”
“I’m still his daughter, the last time I checked.”
“True,” he murmured, and then his gaze swept over me once more, starting at the tip of my head down to the pointy tips of my heels, then swept up again, lingering on my chest. “But not so little anymore.”
Despite my anger, I felt my nipples harden. I crossed my arms and lifted my chin. “Are you drunk?”
Brock blinked and his gaze shot to mine. “I haven’t touched a drop of liquor since that night.”
I sucked in a sharp breath.
“Not one fucking time since that night.”
“Well, okay.” Feeling a little chagrined, I dropped a bit of the attitude. “Look, I didn’t text you to come over and talk about my—my dress or how you’ve suddenly noticed I’m not a child anymore. What the hell was up with tonight?”
Not answering, he glanced around my apartment. Spying Rhage sitting on the arm of the couch, he brushed past me, shoving the sleeves of his V-neck sweater up his forearms, revealing the brightly colored tattoos on his left arm.
“Well, just help yourself to my cat. That’s not—” I stopped as Rhage rose, stretching his kitty head toward Brock’s large hand, rubbing against him. Disgusted, I shook my head. That cat was also an asshole. “That’s bullshit.”
Scratching Rhage behind the ear, he looked over his shoulder at me. “Your language is burning my innocent ears.”