She was getting paid thirty grand.
That was more than enough for her to be able to either bribe them to move out, or sell the house and move out herself. The only problem would be getting her sisters’ approval to sell it.
Her shoulders slumped. It would never work. She adored that house—she’d grown up in that house. To just let them have it—trash it?
The thought made her shudder.
She quickly pulled her hair back into a bun, tossed on a pair of ripped jeans, a gray tank top, and white Converse sneakers, her cleaning uniform for the day.
Except.
Brock.
No matter how hard she tried she couldn’t get his defeated expression out of her mind, or the way he looked at her, noticed her, even when he seemed annoyed with himself for being that transparent.
He wasn’t a reason to put on makeup.
After all, he seemed angry whenever she drew his attention and the last thing she needed was more anger from him.
She shook her head and glanced one last time in the mirror. Large brown eyes with matching brown hair, a strong jaw, black eyelashes.
Makeup would help.
She moved past the mirror, stopped, started walking again. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered, finally swiping on some pink lipstick from the nearby dresser and rubbing her lips together.
The lipstick was for her.
Not him.
Never him.
It made her feel confident. Like she’d just put on a suit of armor.
She walked into the living room and paused. The blanket from the night before was still draped across the floor and part of the couch.
Last night he’d looked at her…really looked at her. Maybe it had been her imagination but his lips seemed to linger over the ceramic cup when they locked eyes.
She shivered and wrapped her arms around her chest. The dark room was suddenly too small, too depressing. She glanced around for the light, but the minute she flipped the switch, the blinds seemed to come alive, begging to be pulled.
Well, he couldn’t get any more angry with her. His conflicted expression flashed in her mind. A minute ago she was trying not to make him angry and now she was going to poke the bear.
With a sigh, she grabbed each of the strings to the blinds and pulled them completely up.
Light immediately flooded the room, opening it up, making it feel bigger—massive, actually. And just like Brock had said, the light flooded all the way into the kitchen, creating a beautiful streak of sunlight as if heaven really was looking down and smiling.
With a grin, she skipped over to the kitchen, doing a few twirls in her Converses on the way.
“She used to do that,” came a rough voice. “Dance in the sunlight.”
Nearly tripping into the wall, Jane recovered and turned around. A sleepy Bentley was making his way into the room. “I don’t remember much, but I do remember that.”
“I’m sorry.” Jane felt horrible.
Bentley frowned. “Why would you feel sorry for dancing in streams of sunlight?” His face transformed into a grin before he grabbed her body and pulled it against his, twirling her around the room.
“You know the quick step?” She let out a breathless laugh.
“Grandfather raised me right.” He winked, tugging her body across the floor directly into the sunlight.
A burst of laughter escaped her as he bent her down and his lips hovered near her neck.
“Careful,” he warned, eyes locking with hers. “You’ll make me think you want me more than Brock, and I would hate getting strangled to death.” He leaned in toward her mouth. “Then again, it may be worth it.”
“What. The. Hell.” Brock’s voice was deafening. “Is happening in here?”
Bentley pulled her to her feet and turned. “Dancing. You know, where you move your feet and hold a woman close enough to feel the tips of her breasts press against your chest and—”
“Bentley, I swear I really will kill you if you finish that sentence,” Brock barked, his eyes thunderous as he looked between the two.
Suddenly feeling guilty, Jane backed slowly away from the testosterone and went into the kitchen.
She knew exactly what she was going to make.
Luckily, she’d gotten a few groceries from the store, including a few frozen treats.
Twenty minutes later the smell of cinnamon filled the house.
The timer went off. She grabbed the oven mitts and pulled the tray of cinnamon rolls out, then slowly began to drizzle icing across them.
“Are those”—Brock was suddenly behind her, and she could feel the heat of every warm masculine inch of him—“what I think they are?”
She gulped. He was going to yell. She just knew it.
Tensing, she gave him a jerky nod.
“And was it you who opened the blinds?”
“Y-yes,” she stammered.
His hands moved to her shoulders and then slid down her arms. With a sharp inhale he whispered gruffly, “Thank you.”
And then he was gone.