“Oh.” She nodded. “So we’re going to have sex like nine more times? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Nine? Woman, you’ll be lucky to get any work done outside of this bedroom for the next two weeks.”
“Oh, no.” Her face fell in mock sincerity. “I hope my employer won’t be angry with me.”
“He may punish you.” Brock kept a straight face. “Hard time in the bedroom for not cleaning the bathrooms just right.”
She smirked. “Slave driver.”
“He really is.”
She fell into a fit of laughter when he slapped her ass playfully then rose from the bed to grab a towel and start the shower.
They both needed to wash off the sweat and everything else.
He was in his room, so he at least had clothes at hand, but she would want to put on something comfortable.
“Be right back,” he called over his shoulder while she stretched out on the bed. Damn it, he was ready for her again.
He quickly ran into her room in search of sweats or something she could wear so that she wouldn’t have to run around naked—even though that’s exactly what he wanted. But he knew she’d want to be comfortable, or maybe he just wanted her to be comfortable. Because suddenly all that mattered was her.
His eyes locked on the dresser. He walked over and opened the top drawer and cursed as he pulled the drawer out far enough that it fell.
Jane came running at the sound, a towel wrapped around her body. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“Get out,” he whispered.
“But—”
“I said”—he rasped—“get the hell out! Now!” He kicked the dresser. Jane’s perfume flew off the top, smashing at his feet, filling the room with her scent.
Her eyes filled with tears.
And she ran.
Good. She should run.
He couldn’t control the rage that filled him. Bracing himself against the dresser he looked down at the drawer.
It never occurred to him that his grandfather would keep things. Keep memories, store them away for Brock to find.
Plaid shirts.
Harmless plaid shirts.
And stuck between them, the stuffed dog his dad had given him—the day before he’d died.
The day of the fight.
“But I don’t want to!” Brock had yelled. “You can’t make us move to California! I belong here!”
His father sighed. “Brock, it’s my responsibility to keep my word to your grandfather and he needs someone in the LA office.”
“Fine.” Brock crossed his arms, “Then you go! I’m staying here!” He threw the stuffed dog his father had given him back into his face. “No!” He stomped his foot. “I won’t go. I hate you! I hate you!”
His parents died the very next day.
He fell to his knees amidst the broken picture frames that had joined the smashed perfume bottles on the floor and didn’t even care that shards of glass were piercing his skin. He welcomed the pain.
The ghosts were free.
And they were relentless.
His parents were gone.
All he had was his grandfather
And his brothers.
Life would be so much easier if there was a map to get through it, but when he wasn’t given one, he’d followed the only family he had left.
And was led to this place.
A crossroads.
He knelt amidst the broken glass and memories for the next hour, feeling guilty as hell, and sad.
Because that was the thing about death.
It haunted the living.
Until they mourned it.
And the more it was ignored.
The bigger it grew.
Until survival was damn near impossible.
It loomed over Brock’s body like a vicious storm, and he didn’t have a damn clue how to get over it.
Which was why he said the yes.
His yes’s were because of this stupid stuffed animal.
And the picture.
He held onto them for dear life and stared.
An hour later, he realized that Jane had returned, and put a blanket over his shoulders.
When he finally acknowledged her, she handed him a mug of something and lifted a shoulder. “I made it a double.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“No, I’m really, really sorry.”
“I know.” Her smile wasn’t present—her strength, however, she wore like a beautiful suit of shiny armor.
“It’s not you.”
“Drink the whisky, Brock.”
He sighed and took the mug. “Yes, ma’am.”
The grandfather clock chimed from downstairs as if to remind them that time wasn’t exactly in their favor. They shared a look as Jane reached across the space between them and gave him her hand.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Jane’s hands were still shaking long after she’d left the room and gone back to his. She was insane.
She’d just lost her virginity to a man who already had part of her heart, and he’d just yelled at her and had had what seemed to be an emotional breakdown over a dresser drawer.