Page 84 of The Confidentiality Clause
“Is that any way to treat your boyfriend?” he asks in a too-sweet voice.
“When he’s come to annoy me, yes.”
“Okay, I’ll admit, I did want to push your buttons a little.” He holds up his hands when I glare at him. “ButI also came because I thought after you were done being mad, you’d have fun and see that I’m trying.”
My heart softens. The past few days have been fairly busy for both of us. Brock is attempting to restructure his business to be more sustainable in the long term, and I’ve had a heavier workload ever since Houstonresigned. In all the chaos, Brock has texted throughout the day, gotten lunch with me, and called me before bed each night.
“I’ve seen you trying. You didn’t have to do this.”
He gives me a slightly sheepish grin. “Maybe another reason I came is because I’ve missed you.”
Tears sting the backs of my eyes. Stupid hormones. I can’t cry over something like this.
“Normally, I would go change and show you up, but I’m not feeling the best.” I shift from one foot to the other.
Concern blankets his features. “Are you sick? Do you have a fever?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s, um, that time of the month.”
“Okay, new plan, you go lay down and I’ll be back in a little while. Can I borrow your house key so you don’t have to get up when I come back?”
I blink. “Sure?”
He steps inside and finds my key ring easily in a bowl on a nearby table.
“What are you doing?” I ask him.
He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Go rest. I’ll be back soon.”
“I don’t like surprises,” I say, and he laughs.
“That’s what people who secretly love surprises say. I’ll be back in twenty minutes, tops.”
He walks out the door with my keys and heads to his car. I frown as he pulls out of the driveway. My body hurts too much to stand here pouting, though, so I shuffle to the couch and collapse onto it.
Less than twenty minutes later–I may have checked my phone a few times–Brock walks through my front door with several different bags and a drink carrier. My eyebrows pull together. I sit up.
“I brought breakfast. I’ve got bagel sandwiches if you’re craving salty, and croissants if you want sweet. Or both.” He sets two paper bags on the table beside the drink carrier. “I was in a rush and forgot to ask whether you liked hot or iced coffee more, so I ordered both. Vanilla, right?”
I nod slowly. He then sets down a small grocery bag. I eye it. “What’s in that bag?”
He chuckles. “It’s for later.”
I lean forward and snag it off the table. He doesn’t try to stop me. Inside is a bag of large marshmallows, a box of graham crackers, and different kinds of chocolate bars.
“S’mores?” I question. “I don’t have a firepit. I guess we could put them in the oven.”
They don’t taste as good, but it’s the thought that counts.
“I realized that might be the case halfway to the checkout counter. So I bought you one. It’ll be delivered this afternoon.”
My mouth falls open. “You bought me a firepit? What if I already had one?”
He shrugs. “I’d return it. Hot or iced?” He points at the cups.
“Hot. Do you have a firepit at your house?”
“Yes.” He hands me a warm travel cup.
