All talking ceased.
Brock turned to see his brothers grinning at him like he’d just announced he was going to get a tiger like Mike Tyson and call it Bitch.
“What?” he growled, and then winced when growling set off another jolt of lightning through his brain.
“You cursed last night,” Bentley pointed out. “A lot.”
“I was drunk,” Brock said, irritated to find himself on the defensive.
“Nope.” God he wanted to punch the smug grin from Brant’s face. “That’s a lie…you curse when you’re either really upset or…” He shared a look with Bentley. “When you want something you can’t have, which isn’t often.”
“Bullshit!” Brock yelled. And winced again as blood surged in his head.
Bentley held up his hands. “And we rest our case.”
“I’m too tired for this.”
Bentley side-stepped Brock then made a beeline for the shower.
“Like hell!” Brock shoved his brother out of the way. “When I’m done showering I want you out of my apartment.” He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it onto the floor as he got into the shower.
“But who’s going to make us breakfast?” came Bentley’s voice.
“Go!”
Silence ensued and then Brant appeared next to the shower door. He was holding up a black shoe. Shit. “So either you have something you want to tell us…or you slept with a woman’s shoe last night. Where’s the rest of her?”
Groaning, Brock let the hot water singe his back as he leaned against the tile and exhaled roughly. “It’s the girl Bentley was talking about…I bought her shoes. Hers broke.”
“You do realize that’s kind of a weird thing to do for a complete stranger, right? You don’t just buy someone expensive shoes after theirs break, especially not a woman. Buying clothes, even in a relationship, usually means commitment.”
“How do you know they were expensive?” he asked.
“Weren’t they?”
“Eight hundred and fifty.” Bentley shouted from the bedroom.
Brant whistled and returned his attention to Brock.
“Go away,” Brock grumbled. “Both of you.”
“Hmmm.” That was Brant’s only response, and then there was blessed silence as Brock breathed in the steam from the shower.
She was just a woman. A really pretty, vibrant, girl-next-door, attractive woman.
With seven freckles.
Damn it.
Small straight white teeth.
An overly plump top lip.
“Damn, damn, damn.” Brock slammed his hands against the tiled wall.
The reminder of the auction he’d agreed to was like a brick in his stomach, a heavy, horrible brick of guilt.
Today he and Grandfather would go over all of the fine print. A list of potential women and rich families would be compiled based on past donations to Wellington charitable causes.
From that list, Brock knew his grandfather would pick his favorites, the ones that “made sense”, just like Harvard had made sense, and football, and wearing three-piece suits at twenty.
Because at the end of the day that was all that mattered. Keeping his grandfather happy.
The only thing that didn’t make sense to Brock was why they even needed this auction. It was a simple question—but one that he was too scared shitless to actually ask. What was the real reason behind the auction? Did they really need good press that desperately?
When he turned off the shower, he stepped over the shoe—the elephant in the room.
A giant elephant, reminding him he needed to start living life for himself.
He stared back down at the shoe, and a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. The girl from last night…he knew her name, and that was a start. How hard would it be to find out who she really was? Maybe he’d luck out and she’d be from one of the wealthy families donating to the cause.
Right. And maybe he’d get struck by lightning.
But if she wasn’t part of the auction what would be the point?
Because even as his heart thumped yes, yes, yes when he thought about pursuing her—logic screamed no.
Maybe if he was to just randomly bump into her, joke about having her old shoes?
Good pick-up line.
Solid.
She’d be eating out of the palm of his hand.
With another groan he quickly got ready to go to the office. Images of a woman with brown eyes and plump lips invaded his thoughts the entire time.
Chapter Eight
A sense of dread washed over Brock as he entered his grandfather’s office.
And it wasn’t because his grandfather was waiting to seal his fate without a word of argument from Brock.
No, hell had started the minute he got out of his car and made his way into the lobby of the Wellington building, and was fucking mauled by enough reporters to cover a presidential nomination. Democratic and Republican.
“Shit.” There had been no side-stepping, no avoiding. So he did what he always did, what he’d been trained to do.
What he hated.