Page 26 of The Confidentiality Clause
“Then what would you call this conversation?”
An infuriating smirk slants his mouth. “Getting a reaction out of you. Which is much too easy, by the way.”
“I’m going to get my keys,” I grumble.
He holds up a hand. Dangling against his palm is my key ring.
“I snagged them from the coffee table while you were putting on your shoes,” he explains, then unlocks the car.
I get in and slam the door shut behind me. He follows suit, chuckling the entire time.
“You’re insufferable,” I grumble.
“And yet you kidnapped me for the weekend. What does that say about you?”
“That I’ve lost brain cells from spending so much time with you.”
I press the start button and put the car in reverse.
“I hope you’re nicer when you’ve had ice cream,” Brock comments after I’m on the road.
“I’m going to drive off the side of this mountain if you don’thush.”
“You’d be in the crash with me if you did that.”
“Worth it,” I mutter, but he hears me and laughs.
“So much venom.” I shoot him a glare that he must feel even in the dark car because he says, “Okay, okay, I’ll be quiet.”
“Thank you.”
For the next few minutes, the soundtrack to our drive is the hum of the AC vents and the gentle crunch of my tires on the worn road. It should be peaceful, but my mind is a pinball machine. Thoughts bounce around in every direction. I steal a glance at Brock, catching his silhouette against the light of the moon. He seems to be doing better. He’s not even on his phone right now, but that might be because there’s no signal on these back roads.
He helped with dinner. That was new. None of the boyfriends I’ve had have even been to this cabin, much less–boyfriend? I scrunch my nose. Brock is the furthest thing from aboyfriend. He’s a hazard to my mental health. Nothing more, nothing less. Still…it was strangely intimate standing so close to him in the kitchen while listening to my favorite jazz playlist.
I stifle a groan as I turn onto the main road. If only I could talk to Sutton. But no, I had to make a deal with the subject of my ire.
“Are we good?” Brock asks when we’re halfway to the shops.
My brows furrow. “What do you mean?”
“Did I make things weird?” he asks, which doesn’t help me discern his riddles at all. “I-I mean with my comments earlier. I don’t want you to think I was trying to take advantage of us being alone.”
I whip my head to look at him, then back to the road.
“You said you were just messing with me.” Panic makes my voice rise a few octaves. IfBrock Joneshas a thing for me, then I don’t know what I’d do. The hopeless romantic in me thinks of Shaw and Sutton’s story, but the realist half of me squashes that idea. He can’t even go ten minutes without his phone. That is not the kind of man I’m looking for.
“I was!” he quickly clarifies. “I just didn’t want to make you feel weird.”
“This”–I gesture between us–“is making things weird.”
“I’m sorry, but I had to say something.”
“No, no you didn’t.”
“I did. If Sutton found out we were up here together and I made you feel unsafe–”
“Why would you joking around make me feel unsafe?” I ask incredulously. “I’m not a delicate flower. I can handle a little teasing.”
