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EIGHT
Joey
I feel like I’m on fire. My body prickles with awareness, hums with anticipation and desire. It took everything I could to mask my surprise and attraction to Brock as I walked down the stairs and saw him standing in the foyer with my brother. In a shirt nearly an identical color to the dress I’m wearing. All the pep talks in the world about keeping those thoughts of Brock and the crazy desire I feel when he’s near fly straight out the window, and it took every ounce of strength I possessed to play it cool and not climb him like a tree.
Now, I’m sitting in the back seat of my brother’s SUV with Brock’s subtle cologne practically punching me in the vagina. He smells so amazingly yummy that it’s taking all my control not to lean forward and lick the side of his neck.
It was a fight just to sit in the back seat. Brock insisted I take the front, but I knew, even with the larger size of Caleb’s SUV, the man would be cramped back here. Plus, I thought it would give me the slightest reprieve from the potent sexy vibes seeping from his pores, but man, was I wrong. Sitting behind him islike a direct line straight to my underused female reproductive organs.
My vibrator is definitely going to get a workout later.
As we pull into the valet at Sully’s, my nerves instantly rise. I’ve never really had a great relationship with my parents, by my own choice. They’re… difficult. I know normal is a setting on the dryer, but all I’ve ever wanted was a slice of a “normal life.” Parents who weren’t tabloid fodder, with paparazzi trailing behind you everywhere you went, hoping to snatch an unflattering photo sure to yield high profits to the right rag mag.
Now, I’m about to be thrust into a forced dinner, where cell phone cameras will surely catch photos of my dad and his new wife looking breathtaking and “so in love,” while I’m sitting there, probably shoveling my pasta primavera into my open trap.
My door opens, pulling me from my thoughts, only it’s not the valet offering me his hand. It’s Brock and his panty-melting smile. Turns out, it’s my kryptonite.
Caleb joins us on the sidewalk and offers me his elbow. There’s a flash of annoyance and a bit of hesitancy in Brock’s face, in his movement, as he slowly holds out my hand so I can place it against my brother’s forearm. However, before he lets go completely, I feel him give me a gentle squeeze.
The front doors open by men wearing tuxedos as we enter the restaurant. I’ve been here before. The last time I visited Caleb, Dad insisted we meet for dinner here. All of my insistence we go to the burger joint down the road fell on deaf ears. “Hendersons are expected to eat at nice restaurants, not at hole-in-the-wall places with cracked plastic red and white checkered tablecloths.”
The maître d’ greets us with a solemn nod. “Good evening, Mr. Henderson. Your party has arrived. If you follow me, I’ll take you to your table.”
The walkway to the very back of the room is narrow, so I release Caleb’s arm and fall behind him. As I’m walking, I feel a large, warm hand press against my lower back, and it takes every ounce of restraint I possess not to react to the touch. Instead, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other and not tripping in front of a restaurant full of rich and powerful people.
All eyes are on us. Even though I don’t dare glance around, I can feel them. Not only is my dad well known, but so are Caleb and Brock. Their faces are front and center in sporting magazines, blogs, and gossip columns more often than I change underwear, so it’s no wonder there’s a hum of excitement as we walk through the room. There are even a few gasps of delight from ladies nearby. I’m surprised a few pairs of panties aren’t thrown in the walkway.
Approaching the intimate table in the back, my father stands and gives us a big smile. He extends his arms and hugs Caleb, slapping him hard enough on the back to catch the attention of anyone whose eyes weren’t already on our group. “There’re my children,” he boasts proudly, as if there were cameras already pointed his way.
Hell, maybe there are.
“Princess.” I glance up and offer my dad a small smile. He steps forward and pulls me into his arms, my body completely encompassed by his large body. His familiar cologne wraps around me, a reminder of quick trips into town when I was child, where he’d blow in, throw gifts at me, and then leave again.
“Hi, Dad,” I mutter as he places a kiss on my cheek.
“You look beautiful,” he replies, stepping back and looking me over with a critical line. “Is this a new dress?”
I feel the blush burn up my neck as images of Brock helping me choose the perfect dress for tonight pepper through my mind. “It is,” I reply, clearing my throat.
“It’s lovely.” Dad turns when a hand with long red fingernails slips through his arm and grips his suit jacket. “Ahh, yes. Candi dear, the kids are here.”
I almost snort, considering Candi is two years younger than her husband’s oldest child.
“Josephine! Wow, I almost didn’t recognize you without a ponytail and Chucks on your feet!” she bellows, certain to draw the attention of everyone in a two-block vicinity.
“Good to see you, Candi,” I mumble, watching as her focus is completely drawn over my head. “Brock Williams, I’ve heard so much about you. It’s so wonderful to finally meet you,” she says, reaching out her hand and bumping me in the upper arm.
I try not to move, but I’m wobbly in my heels and stumble backward. Fortunately, I’m kept from making a scene, when a pair of strong hands grip my hips and hold me in place. Once I’m steady again, Brock reaches for the extended hand and places a kiss on her knuckles, all while keeping his other hand firmly on my hip. “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Henderson.”
She blows out a dainty puff of air. “There’ll be none of that,” she practically coos. “You can call me Candi. With an I,” she adds with her trademark giggle.
“Candi,” Brock confirms, releasing her hand and taking a step back to grab a chair. He pulls it back, guiding me toward it with the hand still resting on my hip. “Ladies first.”
My heart does this weird fluttering thing in my chest as my eyes lock on his. There’s this deep, dark intensity I’m not prepared for, and if I’m being honest, I’m not sure if I should be appalled or excited by my schoolgirl reaction. “Thank you,” I whisper, taking a seat in the offered chair.
Dad and Candi return to their seats, while Caleb takes the one to my left and Brock to my right. I notice Candi instantly lean to her left, slipping ever so subtly into Brock’s personal space, and the movement grates on my nerves even further.
After glasses of water and a bottle of fine wine is delivered to our table, Dad and Caleb immediately start discussing the upcoming season, while Candi does everything she can to engage Brock in conversation about his transfer to the Ramblers. Funny how Dad wanted to have dinner with me yet talks quickly turn to football, which doesn’t include me at all.
