Page 37 of Forbidden Love

Deb remained silent, just watching everything. Brock and Ben were still wrestling with the rod. There was something achingly sweet about the way Brock guided Ben, firm but gentle, never frustrated. Even when Ben got the line stuck in the tree for the third time.

Deb felt her chest tighten—not in a bad way, but in that soft, unexpected way that made her realize just how rare moments like this were.

“You know,” she said aloud, casting a teasing glance toward Brock, “if you keep hooking bushes and trees, we’re gonna have to rename this leafing instead of fishing.”

Brock grinned over his shoulder. “Keep talking smack, and you’re getting the jankiest rod I can find.”

“Joke’s on you,” Deb said, rising to her feet with dramatic flair. “I could outfish you with a stick and some string.”

Ben gasped. “Uncle Brock, she’s trash-talking you!”

Brock gave her a long, amused look. “Yeah, I know, but that’s all she’s got. All talk and no game.”

Deb’s heart gave a tiny, traitorous flutter. “You sure you’re ready to lose to a girl?”

Brock stepped away from Ben, his eyes roamed over her with a quick glance. “I’ve lost to worse, but today isn’t going to be that day since all you seem to be doing is running your mouth and not tossing out a line.”

As the day went on Ben had long since lost interest in actually catching a fish. Tammy had tapped out after declaring her sandal had been “viciously attacked” by a suspicious-looking twig in the water. It was only her and Brock.

Deb exhaled slowly, casting her line with a little flick of her wrist. “It’s peaceful here.”

“It is,” Brock said beside her, sitting with his legs stretched out, one hand loosely holding his rod, the other propped behind him.

For a moment, they just sat like that. The sun had begun to dip, casting the water in a golden haze. They were tied four bluegills a piece.

“I think they stopped biting,” Deb said with a lazy sigh. She loved this time of day. The sounds of tree frogs and crickets filled the air. Spring was here, and soon, Summer would be upon them, and she was so glad. She hated the cold. “What happens if we tie?”

“Not going to happen,” Brock said sounding as lazy as she did.

Grinning, she leaned her head back and looked at him. “What makes you so sure O’Mighty Fishman?”

A slow smile curved Brock’s full lips as he glanced her way, and something in Deb’s chest gave the faintest flutter. The last rays of sunlight caught his eyes, turning them a molten gold that seemed to glow just for her. His dark hair was long and unruly, falling across his forehead in wild waves the breeze couldn’t quite tame. He looked like he belonged in the woods—raw, strong, untamed—and he was, hands down, the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on.

But it wasn’t just the way he looked that made her breath catch.

It was the way hewas.

There was a quiet steadiness in him, the kind of calm you didn’t realize you were starving for until you felt it. When Brock spoke, he didn’t just say words—he meant them. Every single one. There were no hidden motives behind his smile, no veiled intentions in his gaze. After so many years of guarded conversations and second-guessing everyone’s meaning, being near him felt like exhaling after holding her breath for too long.

She found herself watching him when he wasn’t looking, drawn to that quiet strength, to the kindness in his hands and the way he spoke to Ben like the boy’s thoughts mattered. That was what made him dangerous. Not his smile. Not those rugged, unfairly attractive features.

No, it was how safe she felt with him. And how badly she wanted to believe in that safety, but was it too soon?

Before Brock could answer, his line jerked. He sat forward, reeling fast, his grin wide as he pulled in a fat, wiggling bluegill. “Guess we’ll never know since I just won our bet and dinner.” Brock looked far too pleased with himself. “Told you I was good at this.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Fine. You win.”

“Say it again,” he teased, holding the fish up triumphantly.

“You. Win,” she said, drawing out every syllable like it pained her. As she glanced at the man who carefully placed his prize-winning fish back into the water, she felt as if she was the real winner in this game.

CHAPTER 17

“Dammit, dammit, dammit,” Deb muttered under her breath as she darted through the house, grabbing her keys from the counter and shoving one foot into a shoe while hopping toward the door. She was late.Late.And she wasneverlate.

Her hair was still half-damp, makeup forgotten on the bathroom sink, and she couldn’t even remember if she’d eaten breakfast. Her internal clock, usually as reliable as sunrise, had completely betrayed her this morning.

She’d overslept. Not by a few minutes—by alot.

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