Page 58 of Fire in You

Listening to cabinet doors open and close, I reached down and peeled the sweater up over my head, letting it drop on the floor. Cooler air washed over my arms. Feeling a million times better, I turned around.

Brock found the stash of pills in the cabinet near the fridge and was doling out aspirins into his palm. With the bottle of water in his other hand, he turned around and went rigid.

I started to say something, but forgot whatever it was as his gaze swept over my face and then dropped, traveling over the thin straps of my top. The tank was tight, like a second skin, and it was low cut, showing off the swells of my breasts. I knew this, because that was where he was looking.

Pleasant warmth replaced the almost suffocating heat from a few seconds ago, but I didn’t want to shed that feeling. Not when he was walking toward me, his eyes darker now, like a heated night sky.

Swallowing, I tipped my head back as he stopped in front of me. I don’t know why I said what I said next. It just came out of my mouth. “Grady never took me out to dinner.”

One brow rose.

“He had to reschedule, but he’s been busy with his grandparents’ farm and midterms and finals and . . .” I shrugged, and his gaze dropped again. “I don’t think I care.”

“Of course you don’t. Told you, you deserve better than him. Take these and drink the water,” he ordered. “You’ll be grateful that you did when you wake up.”

Knowing he had experience in these things, I did as I was told while he walked past me and picked up the remote. Rhage hopped down and pranced over to where Brock stood, winding his body around his ankles.

Traitorous asshole cat.

Brock turned on the TV and started flipping through the channels, settling on what appeared to be a Jason Statham movie where Jason Statham was playing . . . Jason Statham.

Placing the remote on the end table, Brock walked over and turned off the light, and then he sat down—no, he laid down on his side. Apparently I’d missed the moment he’d taken off his shoes and socks. He propped his head on his fist and looked over at me. “Come here.”

I didn’t move for a second. In the back of my mind there was a small voice that was starting to pick up in volume that was warning me not to go to him—to ask him to leave and then go face-plant the bed, but I told that voice to shut the hell up, and I went to him.

Brock extended his hand, and feeling dizzy, I placed mine in his. “Watch this movie with me? Then I’ll leave.”

Watch a movie with him? I . . . I could do that.

He tugged me down so I was lying stretched out on the couch beside him. He’d let go of my hand, so I was facing the TV. My back was against his front and there was the tiniest space between us.

It reminded me of other days, days long ago, when we’d lie like this at home. Touching but not. Several moments passed, and I felt his hand settle on my hip. I jerked at the touch and then bit down on my lip.

My heart pounded in rhythm with the gunfire echoing on the TV. His hand didn’t move, but his thumb did. It glided back and forth. My body zeroed in on it as I stared at the TV, not seeing what was on it. I started to move.

“Jillian,” he groaned, his hand flattening on my hip. “Lay still and watch the movie.”

Pouting, I exhaled heavily. I didn’t want to lay still. Not when he was here. Not when his body was long and warm and hard so near mine.

“Brock?” I turned my head so I could hear him.

“What, babe?”

I stared at the ceiling. “Is this . . . is this weird that we’re here, right now?”

“Weird?” I felt him shift, and then suddenly he was staring down at me. The flicker of the TV cast shadows over his face. “There’s nothing weird about this. If anything, it’s right.”

Right.

This wasright.

My eyes searched his. “Did you . . . did you miss me this whole time?” I drew in a shallow breath. “I missed you.”

Brock’s gaze held mine. “Missed you every fucking day, Jillian, with every ounce of who I am.”

Chapter 17

I awoke to a dream.

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