The twins shared a look before Bentley spoke. “He takes care of people; they don’t take care of him. Hell, the last time someone took care of him”—he lowered his head—“was when our parents were alive. He’d skinned his knee after falling off his bike, and our dad helped patch him up. It was the last time I saw Brock cry or show any sort of emotion other than irritation and anger.”
What? How could that be true? He’d smiled at the club when they’d been in the private room, when he’d given her the shoes. Her thoughts jumbled together as she pressed a hand against her chest. “You,” Bentley said softly. “He smiled with you.”
Chapter Twenty
He was literally going to get a medal for being an asshole. It wasn’t her fault, but she was the easiest target. Projecting every damn feeling of insecurity and loss onto her just seemed…easier, easier then dealing with it. Seeing her in the kitchen had been a fucking nightmare.
She was pounding the hell out of chicken, for shit’s sake.
Just like his mom.
She looked nothing like his mom—nothing.
And yet, seeing her there made his chest ache and his stomach drop to his knees. And with his brothers home, the house was full again.
It was all too familiar.
With a curse, Brock tossed off the giant comforter, pulled on a pair of sweats, and walked out of the room. He needed whiskey if he was going to have any hope of sleep.
Lots of whiskey.
He’d always prided himself on his control.
Until her.
And the house.
Both of them were grating his very last nerve. Set the table? Seriously? Like his brothers both weren’t completely aware that the last meal they’d had as a family had been shared at that very table.
With a shudder, he quietly pulled the whiskey from the pantry and poured a heavy dose into a coffee cup, then made his way to the living room. Maybe he’d sleep on the couch again.
Maybe he’d get drunk again.
And just maybe, he’d forget all about how good Jane smelled and how beautiful she looked—while cleaning a damn toilet.
Yeah, he was so screwed.
Brock surveyed the room as he took a sip of whiskey. The leather couches were the only new thing in the entire house. Everything else was exactly how he remembered it, from the woodsy smell to the way the wood floors creaked when you walked into the living room.
Another slow sip and he was sinking down onto the couch.
A little squeak erupted from where he tried to sit, and he jumped back up.
“Hey!” Jane’s quick movements were almost impossible to make out in the dark, but her voice? It was clear, smooth, and it sent really irrational feelings straight to his heart. Every muscle in his body tensed.
Because that was what happened when you treated people like shit—people who didn’t deserve it.
His body, aware that things were about to get uncomfortable, braced for impact, while his brain scurried to come up with the right words that would form nice-sounding sentences, sentences that would make things better without going as far as an apology.
Dumbstruck, the only thing he could utter was, “Sorry, didn’t see you there.”
“You didn’t even look.” She tucked her legs under the large afghan and yawned behind her hand. Her dark hair was pulled into a long braid that draped over her right shoulder. A white tank top was visible beneath part of the blanket.
Her expression was tired.
As the fog cleared from his head he managed to sit across from her in his own chair. Buying time, he sipped more whiskey from his coffee cup. “Why are you out here?”
A long pause descended over them like a hot itchy blanket before she answered. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“You know, you can always switch to another room if it’s the bed.”
“It’s not the bed,” she answered in a whisper.
“Or…” He licked his suddenly dry lips. “I think I can find you some NyQuil or something to help.”
She smiled. He could see the white of her teeth as her nose scrunched up in a cute little expression that he really needed to not stare at too long—lest his body take it as an invitation and suddenly launch itself over to the couch.
“Actually,” she said, adjusting herself on the couch again. “It’s more like I keep getting texts from my evil sisters.”
“Turn off your phone.”
“I finally did, but there were things said before the phone went off, things that made it so I couldn’t sleep.”
He wanted to help her—and for some reason, thinking about her problems was a hell of a lot more welcome than thinking about the ghosts floating around the room, staring at him, begging to be dealt with. “Here.” He thrust his mug of whiskey in her direction.
With a frown, she leaned forward, her hands coming into contact with his as they wrapped around the cup. He released the cup into her care, his hands tingling from the sensation of her skin against his.
“What is this?” She sniffed, then made a face.
“Whiskey. Believe me, it helps.”
She sighed. “If you say so.” One small sip and she was coughing, her eyes tearing up as she got off the couch and handed the mug back to him.