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“You’re extra affectionate tonight. It’s kind of nice.”
Brock chuckles. He leans down as we walk toward the restaurant, pressing his forehead against my temple. When he speaks, his breath caresses my neck, sending tingles straight to my core. “Any time you want my hands on you, all you have to do is say it. Your wish is my command.”
“Hmm . . . My personal genie.” I giggle.
“That’s right. I’d do anything for you.” Brock plants a light kiss on the top of my head.
I can’t help but smile. I’m not one to fall for stupid lines. But coming from Brock, I feel like he means what he says.
Be careful. Dean’s advice echoes in my mind.
I shake my head. No. I trust Brock. He said he wouldn’t do anything to hurt me, and I believe him.
“Are you cold?” Brock wraps a strong arm around my shoulders. “We’re almost there. It should be warmer inside.”
“No. Are you kidding me? The weather’s perfect. I was just . . . stretching my neck.”
“You’re perfect,” he says. Before I can tell him how cheesy he’s being, we’re inside the restaurant, and Brock’s telling the maître d’ we have a reservation.
As soon as we’re seated, Brock orders some wine then reaches across the table and takes my hand.
“Uh, I’m going to need my hand to flip the pages,” I inform him, gesturing at the fancy menu with the gold lettering on the leather cover.
“But I need it more.” Brock lifts my hand up and kisses my knuckles.
I roll my eyes, but a smile tugs the corners of my lips up. With one hand, I open the menu. “Fine.”
“I spent an entire night wishing you were in bed with me, plus an entire day at the office stopping myself from touching you. How long has that menu waited for you? Obviously, I deserve you more,” he says.
I laugh. “See, as far as I remember, you kept calling me into your office to touch me and distract me from taking care of all the filing that needed to be done.”
“I’m concerned about your memory,” he says, putting on a worried face. “I didn’t get nearly enough of you.”
“Okay.” I laugh and scan the menu, my hand reaching for the wine glass.
“I’ve got to make sure I get to touch you any time I need to. It’s time to set a wedding date, don’t you think? We’ve been engaged long enough.”
I almost choke on the wine. I cough, my throat burning. “Oh my God, Brock. Don’t do that!”
“What? My parents have been asking.”
“Yeah, your parents also have no idea that we’re not really engaged.”
“Maybe we should be.” Brock cocks me a crooked smile, the kind that makes me wonder if he’s just teasing me. He is. He must be . . . right?
“You’re not going to propose to me while I’m choking on wine,” I say.
“Well, you’re not choking on wine right now . . . so what do you say?”
I laugh nervously, my heart pounding in my chest. I narrow my eyes at Brock. “You’re not serious, are you?”
“I can be,” he answers quickly. “I already have a ring, remember?”
“Yeah. The ring you bought specifically to fool your ex and your entire family into thinking you had a fiancée. It’s a ring of lies.”
Brock smiles. “So what you’re saying is, you want a new ring. Got it.”
I get the distinct feeling that if I were to say, right now, that I’d marry him, Brock would literally grab the arm of the next waiter who walks past and book this restaurant for our wedding venue.
I can’t just decide something like that right now. I’ve barely recovered from having Dean walk in on us.
I clear my throat. “Are you ready to order?”
“Sure.”
So we order our dinner, eat delicious food, drink fancy wine without choking on it, and the conversation flows. We’re flirting and laughing like we normally do. Business as usual.
Still, in the back of my mind, I can’t help over-thinking and over-analyzing what Brock said about us getting engaged—for real, this time.
The idea of growing old with Brock . . . It’s wonderful. I can’t think of a better way to spend the rest of my life. But at the same time, the casual way he brought it up makes me uneasy.
Are we moving too fast?
Was Brock just teasing me?
Is this whole thing simply a joke to him?
Am I letting Dean get inside my head? I probably am.
I should forget about the whole engagement thing and enjoy this nice, fancy dinner.
As we finish our food, and Brock orders more wine, I protest, “Are you trying to get me drunk and take advantage of me?”
“Yes,” he says, his eyes gleaming with obvious desire. He’s leaning forward in his chair now, our hands intertwined on the soft, white tablecloth.
I laugh as the waiter refills our glasses. When I try to reach for the drink, Brock doesn’t let go of my hands.
