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“Whatever,” he replies with a shrug. “Get what you need.”
“Starbucks. Coffeeandone of those slices of their delicious lemon cake.”
He sighs. “What. Ever. Just make sure you’re back in time to go. I won’t wait on you.”
He will. He just likes giving me a hard time.
“I won’t make the golden child late for family dinner. I promise.”
I extend up on my tiptoes and kiss my brother’s scruffy cheek in appreciation. Just as I turn to head for the door, I hear, “I’ll go with her.”
Well, that makes me pause, because the owner of that voice wasnotmy brother. “Oh, that’s not necessary,” I counter, turning around quickly to continue my protest. However, I didn’t realize Brock had moved, so when I turn, I practically face-plant into his chest. His very hard, very muscular, very nice chest.
Oh, the deliciousness of his soap and deodorant hits me square in the face, leaving me a little breathless.
“Well, if I’m the tight end you were referring to, that means I’m going too, and I could use a new dress shirt.” He says it so casually, so reasonably.
What the hell? No!
But Brock doesn’t hear my mental temper tantrum and opens the door, slipping out as quietly as a mouse.
I glare at my brother. “You’re buying me two pairs of shoes now, since I have to entertain your friend.”
Caleb grins and shrugs. “Whatever. I’m going to nap while you’re gone,” he says, turning and heading for his recliner.
“I hope you have nightmares about porcupines!” I yell, running out the door and letting it slam behind me.
As soon as I hit the steps, I start giggling, thinking about the shock and fear on his face. Porcupines are his biggest fear, mostly because he swore one gave him “the look” and chased him when he was ten and his mom took us to the zoo.
It didn’t, of course, but I’ve never let him forget it. He slept with the lights on for weeks after that trip.
“What’s so funny?”
Brock’s question startles me. I guess I expected him to not be standing so damn close.
“Nothing. Long story,” I reply, heading for my car.
When he doesn’t follow, I stop and turn around.
“You think we’re going in that?” he says.
I turn and look at my car. It’s totally sensible, gets great gas mileage, and has a sunroof. “What’s wrong with my car?”
“It has four doors.”
I roll my eyes, making sure he can see the whites all the way around. “That’s a total guy statement.”
“Well, I’m a guy, so…”
Brock heads for the garage and gets in his sports car. As he backs it out, I get my first real glimpse at something thatprobably costs more than my entire year’s salary, times two. It’s sleek, black, and screams sex.
Part of me wants to throw a fit about my car being passed over for a fancy sports car, but to be honest, I really want to go for a ride. My dad has always had his share of cars that cost a small fortune, but I never really had the itch. My first one at sixteen was a small Mercedes crossover SUV, even after Caleb tried to convince me to get the Audi R8.
The truth was, I never wanted to be one of those spoiled rich girls whose daddy bought them everything under the sun. Yes, I accepted that first car at sixteen, but I also sold it in college and bought a used Toyota Camry. Why? To prove a point.
I could do this on my own.
I didn’t need my dad’s money or influence.
