“It means”—Bentley stood between them, pressing a hand against Brock’s chest—“that it’s about damn time you do something for you. Not for us. Not for our dead parents and sure as hell not for Grandfather, but for you. And that girl in that room? She’s for you.”
Stunned, Brock could only gape at Bentley as if his brother had grown two heads.
“There’s always tomorrow,” Brant encouraged. “’Night, guys.”
“There isn’t,” Brock whispered under his breath. “We aren’t promised tomorrow.”
Bentley paused in the hall, his expression pained. “Then why the hell are you allowing someone else to control your life? If you died tomorrow, what would people remember about you? How easygoing you were? How controlled? How rich? Is that what you want, boring Brock?”
The old nickname was a solid hit to his chest. His brothers hadn’t called him that since college.
“Well?” Bentley’s eyebrows shot up. “Boring Brock would walk away, but I don’t think that’s what you want anymore.”
“It’s all I know. It’s for him. For them.”
“Never for you.” Bentley sighed. “Look, man, I get it, believe me. I get the pressure, but do you ever wonder who put it there in the first place? Because the way I see it, it sure wasn’t Grandfather. It was a scared twelve-year-old boy who took the baggage and cheerfully carried it out the door, refusing to let anyone help him along the way. And for what? Did anyone throw you a parade? Did anyone notice how hard it was? No, just you.”
“When the fuck did you get so wise?”
Bentley laughed. “Let’s not let that get around. If Grandfather ever found out he’d auction me off next. God help the poor woman saddled with me for the rest of her life.”
“Nothing wrong with commitment.”
Bentley paled. “We all have our demons.”
“Goodnight, Bentley.”
“Night…Boring Brock.”
Brock smiled the entire way back to his room.
Tomorrow, after all, was a new day.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Lying awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling and wishing she’d packed some sort of sleep aid—not that it would work, because for the most part she knew the reason behind the no sleep—was becoming a new habit for Jane.
Brock.
If only she could walk. Maybe sleeping on the couch would help, or maybe she’d just raid Brock’s whiskey closet.
After another hour of tossing and turning, she finally made the decision to hobble downstairs. So what if it took an hour? At least the slow journey would exhaust her.
Once she sat up in bed she was careful not to put any weight on her foot. Rather, she hobbled, loudly, toward the door. Her tank top and shorts didn’t really hide anything but it was dark and everyone else would be sleeping.
She hoped.
Or did she?
Rejecting the thought of Brock sitting in the living room, waiting for her, she opened the door and glanced down the hall to the right and to the left.
All clear.
With a wince, she hobbled a few feet then lost her balance, nearly face planting against the wall and knocking out a tooth.
“Need help?” asked an amused voice to her left.
Slowly she turned. Brock’s smile was easy, wide.
“I’m fine. I was just…” She searched for a better excuse than I couldn’t sleep but she had nothing. “I’m having trouble sleeping.”
His eyes twinkled. “Me too.”
She was quiet. What was she supposed to say?
“Whiskey?” He offered his arm.
She stared down at it then back up at him. Decision made, she slid her hand through. He started walking them down the rest of the hallway, then with a heave she was in his arms as he carried her down the stairs.
She’d always thought of herself as curvy, not light as a feather, but Brock carried her like she weighed nothing more than a cup of rice. She remembered how strong he’d felt when he’d picked her up at the party—how good he smelled. Memories of their first meeting surfaced as his body flexed around hers.
He deposited her on the couch, went into the kitchen, and returned with two mugs of whiskey.
“Thanks.” Her voice was rough, edged with the tension already coiling in her belly at Brock’s proximity and her own sudden change of heart. Maybe it would be best if he was still angry with her, projecting all his feelings onto the help. At least then she wouldn’t fall for him, right?
“I see why you couldn’t sleep.” His light southern drawl wrapped around her like liquid heat. “If you stare any harder at the wall it’s going to crack.”
Jane immediately looked down into her mug and took a slow slip, careful not to cough and spew whiskey all over him. “Just a lot on my mind.”
“Want to talk about it?”
No. Because talking meant bonding, bonding meant hurt later on down the road. And she didn’t want to focus on the future, a future where she wouldn’t be able to sit in the world’s most perfect ranch house with the world’s most beautiful man and sip whiskey out of a nice brown mug.
“Tell me about the auction.”