Page 49 of Fire in You

I glanced from the cup to him. “For me?”

“Do I look like a white girl in America? No. The pumpkin spice isn’t for me.”

Slowly, I wrapped my fingers around the warm cup. “Thank you.”

Nodding, he started to turn. “I’m going to be on the second floor with the classes. Once our guests arrive, come get me.”

“Okay.”

I watched him walk out and then looked down at my yummy pumpkin spice latte.Do I look like a white girl in America?A grin cracked my lips and then I laughed.

The two potential endorsers showed up not too long after he left. They were impressed with what we had and the space available for growth. Both Brock and I had suspected we’d be hearing from them soon. We hadn’t discussed anything with my father yet. I figured it was a conversation to have over Thanksgiving, when I was face to face in a couple of weeks.

On Friday, Brock brought me another latte along with two slices of pumpkin bread before, once again, disappearing and spending most of his day on the second floor.

That Sunday, I’d gone to the nearby Target in search of a bookcase. I’d been immediately drawn to the really cool ladder ones, but you couldn’t really stack books rows-deep on them. I ended buying two of the standard tried and true ones and spent an ungodly amount of time getting them out of my car and up the three flights of stairs.

This is when having a man around would come in handy.

But I managed all on my own. I even unpacked the pieces, but I didn’t put them together. I ended up realizing there was aWalking Deadmarathon on, and since I didn’t have a TV in my guest room, I’d plopped my butt down on the couch with Chinese take-out and didn’t move for most of the night.

Monday morning, Brock was late getting into work. There were no lattes or slices of delicious bread. Admittedly, I’d been disappointed . . . up until he disappeared around eleven-thirty and reappeared with a carryout bag from Outback.

“You might’ve packed lunch,” he said as he walked into my office, carrying the wonderful-smelling brown bag. “But if I remember correctly, you could never turn down cheese fries.”

“Never,” I breathed, my stomach grumbling. I’d brought one of those not so bad Lean Cuisine dinners, so there was no way in hell I was turning down cheese fries.

He sat in front of my desk and pulled out the white cartons, then plopped down a little container on a napkin. “Sour cream.”

My brows flew up. “Your memory is rather impressive.”

Brock chuckled as he pulled out a salad—adamnsalad. “How could I forget you having an epic breakdown every time you ordered takeout from there, but they forgot to give you sour cream?”

The corner of my lips twitched. Nothing sent me into the pit of despair and rage quicker than not having the correct dipping sauces on hand.

I had just happily popped open the container when I saw Paul walking by the office. He appeared to be heading to Brock’s, but stopped and then looked into mine. Seeing where Brock was, he shook his head, and I couldn’t tell, but I was damn sure he’d rolled his eyes.

What in the hell was this dude’s problem?

Brock frowned as he looked over his shoulder, but Paul had already disappeared. He faced me. “What’s that look on your face about?”

“Nothing,” I mumbled, shoving several cheesy fries into my mouth.

After lunch, my cell started vibrating on the desk. A quick glance and I saw it was Grady. My finger hovered over it as I debated whether or not I wanted to answer it, which was such a jerk move.

Feeling guilty, I answered before it went to voicemail. “Hello?”

“Hey, sorry to bother you at work,” Grady said.

“It’s okay.” I glanced at my open door. “I have a few moments. What’s going on?”

“I hate to do this, but I’m calling to reschedule our date for this weekend,” he said, sounding genuine. “I just heard from my parents. With my grandfather being ill, they need me to help out.”

“Oh.” I fiddled with my pen. “I hope it’s not too serious.”

“He’s just getting way up there in age and doesn’t know when to slow down.” Grady laughed. “Things are kind of crazy over the next couple of weeks with mid-terms and then finals, but when things calm down, I really want to do that dinner with you.”

“I understand.” Flipping the pen, it shot from my fingers and rolled across the desk, dropping off the other side. I sighed.

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