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“You’re just full of surprises,” he said with a pleased grin.
“Speaking of surprises, do you want me to show you what I’ve come up with for your office, while we’re waiting for the meatloaf to cook?” Suddenly excited, I grabbed his hand in mine and pulled him toward the dining room where I’d been working.
“Please excuse the mess,” I said automatically when we entered the dining room and I realized the entire tabletop was full of catalogs, papers, and a large poster board, as well as my computer and printer, which I’d brought in here so that I’d have more space to work. “Guess I’ll have to clear this up so we have a place to eat,” I muttered under my breath.
I looked up, slightly embarrassed to see Brock grinning down at me, before sweeping his eyes across the table. “You’ve been busy.”
Pleasure filled me at his reaction and his words, so I did something I normally didn’t do unless I was with my sister: I grinned back.
“Yes,” I replied simply, then gestured that he should sit and walked around the table, gathering the poster board and a few pictures. I placed them in front of him, then leaned over his shoulder to walk him through my vision. “This place has beautiful pieces of chunky wood furniture that I think would look great. We could get big comfy chairs, maybe brown leather, that would compliment the desks, but still suit you better than a small swivel chair. These shelves, in various sizes, would accent the back wall, and these matching file cabinets would help you organize the paperwork.” I noticed his lips quirk at that, and I knew he was thinking of the piles of paper I’d seen on his desk. “For the decoration I was thinking potted plants. Not flowers,” I added when he started to turn his head, “but nice leafy greenery that could sit in the corner, or on a few end tables, and require low maintenance.”
I reached for the catalog that offered artwork and custom prints, suddenly aware of how close I was when I felt my breast brush against his arm and heard his sharp intake of breath. I cleared my throat as I placed the book in front of him, mumbled, “It’s earmarked to a few options you may like,” then I moved quickly away.
When I was finally able to breath, I maneuvered around the table, gathering the papers and books and placing them in a neat pile at the end of the table. I picked up my laptop, indecisive as to whether I should move everything off of the table, even though we only needed two spaces, or if I should leave what I was working on at the end.
Somehow guessing my thoughts, Brock muttered, “Leave it.” When I just stood there, staring at him and wondering how he always seemed to be able to read me, he added, “There’s no use in taking everything away, when you’re just going to need it again once we’re done. Don’t worry about the clutter on my account, Tori.”
I stood, rooted to the spot. He’d called me Tori. The first time he’d done it, at the bar, his tone had been mocking, and I was sure he was doing it just to piss me off, but now he’d said it absently, not even aware that he had … And I found I liked it.
No one had ever called me Tori, just Vicky, which I absolutely hated. Since I left my mother’s house, I’d been only Victoria. I’d insisted on it. But I found the nickname, coming from Brock’s lips, filled me with warmth. So I moved everything down to the end of the table and said, “I’m going to check on dinner,” before leaving him to peruse the catalog.
Everything was finished and plated when I re-entered the dining room. Brock had moved the poster board down with the other items, but was still looking over the artwork.
“I like your idea … Choosing pictures from both Ireland and Mexico to decorate the office. It incorporates the family concept, O’Malley’s, and shows pride in our heritage. Some of these landscape prints are breathtaking,” Brock brought his green eyes to mine, his gaze gentle, and said softly, “You did amazing work, Tori. I love all of the ideas that you’ve presented.”
The breath whooshed out of me at his words, and pride filled me. My heart felt so full, and my smile was so big, that it was almost painful. The best kind of pain. I put the plates down on the table and crossed to Brock, putting my hands on his cheeks and dipping my head to press my lips to his. I kissed him with all of the feeling I could muster, then pulled back and laid my forehead against his.
“No one has ever believed in me the way you do,” I admitted softly. I pulled back to look him dead in the eye and added, “You don’t even know me.” I searched his face, as if looking for the answer.
He brought his hand up to cup the back of my head, holding me there, our gazes locked. “I know you, Victoria, and there’s a lot to believe in.”
I let his words wash over me for a few moments, then stepped away and sat in my chair.
“This looks great,” Brock said, looking up from his food and giving me yet another compliment.
“Thank you.”
I’d taken a delicate bite of my potatoes when Brock asked, “You said no one believes in you … What about your parents?”
The potatoes suddenly felt like dust in my mouth. I picked up my wine to take a drink, not just to sooth my throat but to buy myself a couple seconds. Brock had told me about his family, so I knew that it was only a matter of time before I had to share that part of myself as well. Still, I wasn’t looking forward to it. I would have liked to hold on to the happy feelings for a little while longer.
Resigned, I carefully set my glass down, patted the corners of my mouth with my cloth napkin, and turned my gaze to meet his.
“When I was eight, my father left my mother for another woman,” I began, my voice monotone, as if I were reading from a newspaper, rather than detailing an event that ripped my life apart. “My mother is a very weak woman. She couldn’t handle it … The embarrassment, the betrayal, but mostly, the thought of being alone. Although she wasn’t alone, she had two children to look after.” This was said with a bitter laugh that I couldn’t seem to contain. “I was only there a few months. A few months of watching the woman who was supposed to care for us drink herself sick every night. Of listening to her cry and wail when she woke up every day and my father wasn’t there. I took care of Abigail, getting her up for school and making her lunch, and when my father came back and wanted to take us to live with him, I thought all of our problems were over … But Abigail chose to stay.” I looked off into the distance, unseeing, as I sipped my wine and let the bitter flavor coat my tongue. “It was another betrayal. I couldn’t believe that she would rather stay with our mother than go with me, but Abigail and our mother have always been close, and she blamed my father for her behavior. I couldn’t stay. Couldn’t watch my mother’s spiral of self-loathing … so I left. I moved in with my father and Felicia, who he married as soon as the divorce was final.”
I brought myself out of my memories long enough to look at Brock, gauge his reaction. He was listening intently, so I continued, “Felicia is everything that my mother wasn’t. Hard working, driven, self-sufficient. As my father’s position in the company grew, so did his exposure, and Felicia fit into that life perfectly. She was born to money, so she was a part of that world already, which really helped my father succeed. She taught me all about society, how to dress, how to act, what I needed to do to help my future husband succeed. She helped me become the woman that I am today.”
When I paused, still lost in my thoughts, Brock’s voice broke through, “What about your mother and Abigail, did you spend time with them?”
I turned my head, nodding slightly. “Yes, I still went there for the occasional weekend, and Abigail came to us, but it was like two different worlds. My mother hates me for leaving, for becoming a woman like Felicia, and I try to stay away as much as possible. Abigail loves my father, and she tolerates Felicia, but she is definitely still on Mom’s side. Their relationship is different than ours, and Abigail has always had free reign to do what she wants. She went a pretty wild during her teenaged years, and hasn’t quite calmed down yet, but she is the sweetest, most loyal person you’ll ever meet.”
“Thank you,” Brock said when I stopped talking, startling me out of my reverie. “For telling me about them. This,” he added, his hand gesturing to his plate, which was empty, “was delicious. I can’t wait to see what you make next.”
I was a bevy of conflicting emotions at his words. Embarrassed that I’d told him about my family and pleased that he liked my food. My initial reaction to his insinuation that I’d be cooking for him again was to shoot back a caustic remark about his presumptuousness, but the thought of cooking for him again was strangely appealing, so I bit back my remark.
Then he reached across the table, covering my slender hand with his large one. His voice got low and he said, “I’d love to make you one of my mom’s specialties, chilaquiles.”
“What’s that?” I asked, his touch causing my body to slowly come alive, bit by bit.
