Page 44 of Forget

Girlfriend?Jayda bit back a grin. If Brock’s shoulders were any more rigid she could rest an entire quarry of boulders on them.

‘Stop trying to embarrass me, Mum.’ His admonishment held no rancour as he took the tickets.

‘I’m not.’ Bette shifted her gaze to Jayda. ‘If I wanted to embarrass you I’d tell Jayda about that time you ran around the car yard naked after falling into the giant wash bucket. Or the time you got chickenpox and thought you’d caught—’

‘We get the general idea.’ Brock winced as his father guffawed and pointed at her.

‘Jayda, if you want to hear any more of those stories, you know where to find us.’

She smiled. ‘Thanks, George, I’ll keep that in mind—’

‘We’re going.’ Brock’s interruption sounded abrupt and loud, sucking some of the light-heartedness out of the room, but it didn’t stop his father from laughing louder.

‘Jayda, you’re a good match for my rude son,’ George said, exchanging a look with Bette, who nodded vigorously.

‘I second that.’ Bette stared at them both in blatant speculation. ‘Hang onto this one, Brock. She’s a keeper.’

‘You two are unbelievable,’ he muttered, dropping a quick kiss on his mum’s cheek and patting his dad on the shoulder. ‘See you later.’

Jayda raised her hand in farewell, stunned to see the glint of tears in Bette’s eyes. What the hell was going on here? Exactlyhow many women had Brock introduced to them over the years that they spent five minutes in her company and decided she’d be good for him?

Not that she didn’t enjoy watching him squirm, but there’d been a strange vibe in that room. Then again, considering her family dynamics before Sasha’s death and after, who was she to criticise?

When they exited the room, Brock slumped against the nearest wall in obvious relief.

‘That was…’ He shook his head, a deep frown slashing his brows. ‘Thank fuck we’re in a hospital because I need a mega dose of painkillers to cope with that.’

She laughed. ‘It wasn’t so bad.’

He scowled and ran a hand through his hair. ‘It was worse.’

‘You’re being too hard on them.’ She touched his arm. ‘They obviously adore you and want you to be happy.’

‘Adore me?’ He snorted, the flare of pain in his eyes making her inhale sharply before he blinked and she wondered if she’d imagined it. ‘My parents have bestowed many things on me over the years, adoration isn’t one of them.’

‘You don’t get along?’

The moment the question slipped from her lips she knew she’d asked the wrong thing. He visibly shut down in front of her eyes: his expression hardened until he appeared stony-faced, his eyes darkened with sadness, and a faint flush stained his cheeks.

‘We get along fine.’ His short, clipped response brooked no argument and right now, with the rest of their evening stretching interminably before her, she didn’t want to probe.

She had high hopes for this evening: him in a suit, her looking her best, a band, champagne, and hopefully a little relaxation. Throwing herself into work and organising this function hadn’t been enough of a distraction the last week and come four-thirty she’d gladly shut down her computer andheaded off for her hair and makeup appointment. She’d wanted to look good tonight. Heck, she’d wanted to look fantastic because projecting a confident exterior would fuel her courage to confront Brock.

‘You’re a fraud, just like me.’

She hadn’t been able to forget his comment last week. He might have glossed over it quickly and she’d let him, but the more she pondered it, the more she wanted to know what he’d meant by it.

Sure, she was a fraud. She pretended every single day: that she didn’t mind being overweight. That she didn’t let her parents’ betrayal bother her. That she didn’t mind being secondbest in their eyes no matter what she did. But she rarely let her insecurities show.

So Brock’s comment begged the question: what was he hiding?

‘We should go now or we’ll be late.’ He offered her his hand and she took it, content to leave things for now. He looked frazzled and there’d be time enough when he took her home to confront the simmering undercurrents between them; as long as the sex didn’t distract her.

It would be inevitable. Brock in casual clothes was delectable. Brock in a designer suit: absolutely scrumptious. The crisp whiteness of his shirt contrasted perfectly with his tan and mop of unruly brown curls. Her fingers itched with the urge to run through them as a vivid image of her hands tangling in his hair as he had his head between her legs sprang to mind.

Heat swamped her body, pooling in her cheeks. She must’ve made some kind of embarrassing sound because he shot her a sideways glance.

‘Everything okay?’

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