Page 16 of Kissing the Wrong Mountain Man

An awkward silence stretches out between us. Brock eventually breaks it with, "And what about you?"

It's not a subtle deflection by any means, but I'll take it, regaling him with the calamity of my dating history. "My love life is so horrendously bad, ironic given I'm a romance author, that I've started calling it reverse research."

"What's reverse research?"

"Well, since I have so many bad experiences to draw from, I use what happens to me in real life, but flip it on its head. Like, one guy, Damian, total mommy's boy. Would call her every day, which at first I loved and thought was really sweet. Until she moved in with him and started joining us on our dates. I took that experience and created a character who was able to set healthy boundaries with his family and ensure his girlfriend's needs always came first."

Brock's frowning, which isn't what I was expecting. Most people usually laugh along with me when I tell them about my sorry excuse for a love life and say something about turning lemons into lemonade. But this seems to be bothering him.

"I'm okay with it," I add. "My writing is therapeutic, and I've been able to work through a lot of my pain. And channeling my trainwreck love life into a super successful career is the best revenge."

He blinks a few times. "I…I guess."

"Trust me, I have well and truly learned my lesson. It may have taken falling pregnant to a not-so-great guy to finally get it, but I swear to you, Brock, my days of trying to fix emotionally damaged men are over."

8

Brock

I drag the coffee table closer to the couch, stack a pile of old home improvement magazines, and place Schapelle's laptop on top.

Her fingers linger over the spacebar. "You ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," I reply, not sure what to expect.

She taps the space bar and settles on the couch next to me. Not right next to me, but close enough that the scent of her peach body wash invades my senses. She's staring intently at the screen, so I should probably do the same.

The show begins. Two teenagers, Dawson and Joey, are watching a movie. Joey is lying on the bed while Dawson is sitting by his desk. They're talking about their friendship, Dawson's parents, and their sleepover tradition.

I only pay half-attention, my mind wandering.

It's been two days since the hot pool, but Schapelle's words haven't left my head.

My days of trying to fix emotionally damaged men are over.

Transmission received, loud and clear.

There goes any slim fantasy I had about having a shot with her, because I'm the poster child for emotionally damaged men.

It's probably a good thing, knowing I'm not even in contention, because as much as I'm trying to fight it, my feelings for Schapelle have only grown in our first week of living together. Her saying that was the bucket of ice-cold water I needed to rein in my errant thoughts.

We can only ever be friends. Just like Dawson and Joey are.

"This is classic storytelling," she whispers to me. "See how it sets the tone for their close relationship but also hints that deeper feelings are at play, too?"

"There are?"

"Of course there are." She assesses me with those sparkling, blue eyes. "You can't see it?"

"No. I thought they were just friends."

His lips twitch into a smile. "Men are clueless."

Can't argue with that, so I nod vaguely and say nothing.

Her smile grows, and when the theme song begins to play, she sings along, loudly, totally wrapped up in it. She may not hit all the high notes the singer does, but I'm enraptured watching her.

No, I'm not. This is a month-long arrangement. We're just friends, I remind myself.But you want more than that, the devil side of my brain counters.

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