They walked into the kitchen where Bentley was reading the paper.
“Why are you guys always at my house?” Brock snatched a piece of fruit as Bentley slid him his coffee. “Seriously, are you that lonely?”
“Yes,” Bentley said without looking up from the paper. “That’s why we bother you, because we’re lonely.” He smirked. “It’s more like…” After a long drawn-out sigh, he held out his hands. “We made the mistake of bringing some girls home and…” He flipped his hand into the air. “We may have swapped girls in the middle of the night.”
“Oldest trick in the book,” Brant snorted.
“Right,” Bentley agreed. “But somehow they found out and once we asked them to leave…all hell broke loose. One of them started smashing wine bottles on the floor then chucked one at my head.”
Brant bit out a curse while Bentley kept on talking. “We finally got them to leave, but one of them came back and our doorman let her up, the bastard. She spray-painted WHORE in bright red graffiti across our doors.”
Brock let out a low laugh. “Oh, that’s fantastic. So your apartments are shame prisons?”
“Basically.” Bentley didn’t look apologetic. “So we’re going to hang with you until things die down. I mean, they’ll get over it; they always do.”
Sighing, Brock took a long drink of coffee and set his cup back down on the table. “You guys can’t keep going on like this.”
“Sure we can.” Brant finally set the paper down. “After all, my life goal includes dying of heart failure during sex.”
“It’s good to have dreams.” Bentley burst out laughing.
“Both of you are going to burn in hell.” Brock snorted.
“Hopefully Grandfather will have paved the way by then.” Bent smirked. “Now, are you ready for tonight?”
Brock paused, his coffee in midair. “I think so; as ready as I’ll ever be. Grandfather doesn’t know what’s going on; he just knows I’m going to try and keep my word to him while still trying to be with Jane. God, I hope that Nadine holds up her end of the bargain.”
“She will.” Brant came around the table and sat, propping his legs up on the chair across from him. “She’s obsessed with a good love story. Her poor grandsons are proof of that. The woman kidnapped a state senator in the name of love. This? This should be a walk in the park for her.”
“Are you going to make a speech before all hell breaks loose? Or just lay it all out there?” Bentley asked.
Brock rolled his eyes. “I have a plan. I’m sticking with it. The end goal is Jane. Anything beyond that? A fucking speech to make people happy? I’m over it. I want her and I’ve found a way to get her and to make sure that Grandfather’s happy. She needs to know I love her. That’s all that matters now.”
The doorbell suddenly rang and Brock cursed as he stomped over to the door, jerking it open.
“Delivery for Brock Wellington.” The messenger had a giant black box. “Just sign here.”
Brock signed and brought the box into the house, closing the door behind him.
He opened the box and saw…plaid.
“What the hell is that?” Brant pointed.
Frowning, Brock picked up the homemade plaid pillow and inhaled. It smelled exactly like his father. They were his old shirts.
The ones from the ranch.
A note was stuck between the pillows.
I meant to give these to you at the ranch but I forgot.
I couldn’t sleep one night and decided to make them into memory pillows. That way you always have your father with you. I thought it may help fight the ghosts but just in case that doesn’t work, I stuffed the dog in the bottom of the box. Rumor has it he’s a guard dog.
Love,
Plain Jane
Fingers trembling, Brock dropped the note and took a step back. She’d done this. For him.
She loved him.
“She loves me,” he repeated out loud. “God, I couldn’t stand another day of this secrecy.”
He was having a hard time breathing—swallowing—functioning as a normal human being. All he could do was stare at the box and wonder how in the hell he was going to be able to wait another eight hours until he saw her again.
And tell her how he felt.
And choose her.
For all the world to see.
Funny, how bidders had donated hundreds of thousands of dollars to be at his side, but what she offered him was more priceless.
Because she was the only woman who had offered something money couldn’t buy.
Her heart.
Chapter Forty-Two
Jane gaped at the glam squad currently setting up around her living room. A hairstylist, a makeup artist, and two other people who looked like their assistants were all running around in a rush of excitement.
A glass of champagne was thrust into her hand and then she was shoved into a tall makeup chair, bright lights turned toward her.
“Hmm…” The girl doing her makeup frowned. “The lighting isn’t good enough. Someone open up the blinds and a window or something.”
A window was opened.
Fresh air blasted in.