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He groans as he rolls his head and looks back at me. “I arranged a flash mob for my high school girlfriend.”
My hands fly out from behind me, and I clap my hands, then squeal, jumping up and down. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“You’re doing that thing with your hands,” he observes.
“Who cares? You made a flash mob. Please tell me all about it.” I get my glass off the floor and lean against the rail as I wait for him to tell me this story.
His shoulders square off, and his chest puffs out. A gleam of pride sparkles in his eyes. “It was pretty cool, if I do say so myself.”
“What song?” I motion my hand in a circle for him to continue, desperately needing more information.
“‘Everybody (Backstreet’s Back)’ by the Backstreet Boys. Please don’t squeal again.”
Smashing my lips together, I do a spin at this news and stomp my foot on the painted porch. “You have to show me the video.”
“There is none.”
“Bullshit. Someone filmed it. I’ll find it. If there is one thing I will do before I leave this ranch, it is getting my hands on that tape. And to think, you’re a BSB fan. I never would have taken you for one.”
“It wasn’t the whole song. Just a small snippet of it. My girlfriend at the time wanted a proposal, and that was way before they became a thing. I asked her best friend to come up with some choreography, and she did better—she had her dance troupe help out.”
“Robert Bronson, you are a romantic.”
“I was also a horny teenager who wanted to make his girlfriend happy. Trust me, it wasn’t as big of a deal as you’re making it out to be. I shouldn’t have told you.”
I bite my lower lip and look at Rob—a man with a strong jawline and thick, dark hair with his intense, piercing eyes convey a depth of experience and resilience. Those eyes seem to hold a world of stories within them. Surprisingly, not all of them are filled with disappointment.
“I bet she was a puddle of goo for you.”
He looks down and smiles. “She was happy. It was kind of fun too. Never did anything like that again.”
“Why not?”
“You get older, and you lose your ability to make a fool out of yourself without caring.”
“Looks like you do know how to be unpredictable, so don’t ever let someone tell you otherwise. Once a romantic, always a romantic.”
My comment causes the lightness in his aura to dissolve and his steel to creep back up his face. I see it in the way his fists open and close, and then one hand moves up to his mouth as he starts to become lost in thoughts. I refuse to let him morph into the version of himself that becomes closed off.
“I’m happy to know you’re not a serial killer,” I add and take a drink.
His eyes flicker up to mine. “Was that a possibility?”
“You do have a room in your basement under lock and key, and even your kids don’t know what’s inside of it.”
His brows rise with a questionable stare. “You tried to get into my workshop?”
“Of course I did. There’s no way in, so I wasn’t successful. What’s behind the door of mystery, Rob?”
“None of your business.”
A deep V forms on my forehead. I can feel it digging into my skin. “Now, I’m starting to wonder if you are hiding something criminal down there.”
“I’m not …” He pauses with annoyance and then leans forward. “It’s my personal space. A man is allowed one off-limits area in his own home.”
My hand flies to my mouth, and I gasp. “You have a sex chamber. Oh my God, that’s your red room of pain down there, you kinky son of a gun.”
“My red room of—” He stands up and tries to wrap his head around my presumption. “I don’t have a sex dungeon, Tara.”
