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But, like I so often do, I bite my tongue. “Sorry,” I say instead.
“I need you over here first thing in the morning,” he orders.
If I were a little more like him, I’d give a hard, firm, ‘no.’ If I were like my brother, I’d have an excuse ready.
But I’m me. And in true me fashion, I can’t come up with anything on the fly. “I… um… I’m not sure if…”
“I leave the house at five,” he says. “Mandy usually meets me at the office at six. I’ll give you until six-thirty so that you can come here and take them out first. And I expect full-time care to be lined up for them by tomorrow. You’re smart. I’m sure you can figure something out.” He thinks I’m smart?
How did he get that? From me, murmuring baby talk to the dogs? Me, babbling about the color of my socks? My ‘Fun Facts about Clogs’ segment?
His eyes flicker as he watches me. “You may not show it, but you are. I can tell. Oh, and my sister, she’s a fan of yours. I guess—I guess she really needed a listening ear today. Maybe I… Maybe I should’ve been there for her. Who knows. Things are complicated between me and her.”
His sudden honesty, on top of the unexpected compliment about my intelligence, stuns me.
I stay mute, while he paces to a thin black-stone and silver-steel table. The legs are formed in the shape of an X. Rich people and their weird furniture…
“She says I should give you a raise,” Brock says as he opens a nearly invisible drawer in the artsy table and plucks out a key. “I don’t know about that since you gave her questionable advice.”
He strides over to me and uses his hand to lift mine.
His touch is firm, strong, warm, and lovely. Goodness. It’s been too long since I’ve been touched by a man. The feel of Brock’s hand on mine should not make the darn butterflies flutter faster.
But it does. His touch feels delightful.
He turns my palm.
I look up into his eyes and see that they’re a deep, rich, mahogany brown with amber flecks radiating out from the pupils. So handsome. Lively, too. I feel as though I’m looking into the depths of a flickering fire, searching for the heart of all the heat.
I see his scar. Pale and squiggly. It reaches from his temple to the corner of his eyebrow. How did he get it?
His eyes search mine. His hand lingers on mine.
My skin tingles where he’s touching me. I can’t tear my eyes away from his. My heart pitter-patters at a fast pace, keeping up with all those pesky butterfly wings.
“Take this key,” he says.
His voice, so close, rumbles through my core.
My knees go weak.
The weirdest fantasy fills me in a rush: Brock and I, standing here, like this. No hierarchy. No roles. Just a man and a woman in an otherwise empty, hushed house. Stars twinkling just outside, night hugging in around us.
In my fleeting daydream, he’s pressing this key into my hand simply because he wants me to have it.
He wants me to have access to his home. To him. Whenever I want it.
Eek!
Not a good daydream.
Stop with the fantasies, I tell myself, as I curl my fist around the cool metal key and pull my hand away.
“Hmm…” he says thoughtfully.
“What?” I ask. My heart hasn’t yet gotten the memo that the romantic fantasy is over. It’s still racing.
“Nothing,” he murmurs.
