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I finish up my salad and garlic bread, drain my water glass, and stand. “I need to get back to work. It was great to see you.”
“You too, Rory. Have a great day, okay?”
“You do the same.” I force a smile, and then I realize it’s actually not forced.
I’m totally over Raine, and I’m totally in love with Brock Steel.
God help me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BROCK
My dad never laid a hand on Brad or me when we were kids. There was never a threat of physical punishment.
But if we got our father angry enough, he put his fist through a wall, not unlike I did in his office recently.
And then?
He’d make us fix it.
I fixed a lot more holes in drywall than Brad did. Brad was the good son. He knew when to stop shooting off his mouth to our father.
So did I. I just chose not to.
Dad would get a look on his face—his features would go rigid, almost to stone. His lips would tremble slightly—very slightly—and pent-up rage would ooze from him. It was so palpable, sometimes I swore I could see it. The truest sign, though? His cheeks. They’d go from ruddy to blazing red, like a flare of fire.
Red Joe, Uncle Talon and Uncle Ryan used to call it.
When Brad and I saw Red Joe emerge when we were kids, we knew it was time to shut up.
Because if we didn’t?
We’d be spackling up drywall later.
Like I said, Brad was better at it than I was.
Right now? As my father turns to me?
I see the beginnings of Red Joe.
Brock, we’ve got a problem.
There’s no drywall in the truck, but there are a lot of things he could put a dent in.
I can stay quiet and see what happens. Or I can ask the obvious question.
“We’ve got a lot of problems, Dad, but I can see you’re angry. Which problem are you talking about?”
I ready myself—ready myself against the eruption that’ll spew out in seconds.
So I’m more than surprised when it doesn’t.
Instead, he sighs.
“My father. Your grandfather. He made the Steel family what it is today.”
“I know that.”
