What Erica found most interesting was that they had several instances of silence on the road, but she hadn’t found a single one of them to be uncomfortable. When the two of them did talk, it was never about the firm. Instead, they talked about Colorado (where they’d been and where they wanted to go), funny childhood experiences, and favorite movies.
It turned out they both had a soft spot for “It’s a Wonderful Life” and the original version of “The Shining.” Neither had ever been to the infamous Stanley Hotel where the movie based on Stephen King’s book had been filmed but both wanted to visit sometime.
As a joke, Brock had said, “Maybe we could spend our honeymoon there.” Erica told him that was a bit gruesome—as much as she loved it, she would want to save that for another occasion. And she also had to give Brock credit—he was incorporating their fake engagement into as much of his imagination as he could, and she supposed that made him a better actor than she.
Slicing through the night and the whirr of tires on asphalt cutting through the muted tunes on the CD player, Brock said, “So tell me about your family. Is there anything I need to know before going in?”
“Hmm. I’m not sure. My dad teaches math at the high school and mom teaches kindergarten, so I can tell you they love kids. I have a brother who’s five years older, so even though we love each other, we never did a whole lot together growing up.”
“Sounds kind of like my brothers and me. We’re all three or four years apart, like my parents weren’t in any big hurry to have kids.”
“Nothing wrong with that. At least you know you’re wanted.”
Brock didn’t respond at first. When he did, he asked, “Were you a surprise baby?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Because you said, ‘At least you know you’re wanted,’ implying that maybe you weren’t.”
“Oh, no, I didn’t mean it that way. I was just kind of thinking out loud—that parents who plan most definitely communicate to their kids that they’re wanted, not to imply that surprise babies aren’t.” Brock started laughing. “What’s so funny?”
“Just thinking about that term. A surprise baby to a couple is a lot different from a surprise baby discovered via paternity test. And I don’t know that those parents are that thrilled.”
“You never know.”
Another minute passed before Brock asked, “Do you want to have kids?”
“Someday. I’m not ready yet.”
“Me, either. I like my niece, so I’m pretty sure I’d enjoy kids, but they tie you down. I’ll need to get my mind in the right place for that.”
“Yeah. I hope I can be the kind of parent my mom and dad were—loving, even though they were a little strict, kind, and fun. They encouraged me to do whatever it was I wanted and supported me along the way. I can only hope to be half as attentive as they were.”
“You’re lucky.” Brock didn’t elaborate and Erica was afraid to ask. It seemed to be a sensitive subject, based on his tone. But she wouldn’t disagree with him—she was quite fortunate to have such wonderful parents…and she was trying not to focus on the fact that she was only going to see them for little more than twenty-four hours before heading over to spend time with Brock’s family. Next year, “single” again, she could spend the entire time with them, but for now, she had to keep reminding herself that what she was doing allowed her to practice her dream job—and she knew her parents would wish nothing less for her.
She only hoped she’d be able to maintain this façade in their presence. Time would tell.
* * *
In spite of his family’s wealth, Brock had never been much for appearances. Erica’s family could have been living in a double-wide trailer and he wouldn’t have thought twice about it.
They didn’t, though. They lived in a rustic-looking home on the west side of town. Brock enjoyed driving through Gunnison, because every block brought back memories of his days as a young man out on his own for the first time.
The Larsons lived in a neighborhood, but it was a little out of the town proper. Erica guided the way and they were there less than five minutes after passing Main Street.
While they were getting their luggage out of the trunk, he said, “We’re going to have to stop by Mario’s on the way out of town Friday.”
“You miss their pizza?”
“No, I want a calzone.”
“I love their salads, so I guess it’s a date.”
“I think if we leave after lunch, we should be able to get to Vail by nightfall.”
He’d never tell her so, but he would have much rather spent the entire time here with her parents—provided they were nice enough. He suspected they were, because they say the apple never falls far from the tree, and if Erica was anything like her parents, he was going to like them.
Her parents must have heard the car doors closing, because Brock could hear a man’s voice in the distance saying, “Yes, they’re here.”
After just those few moments, Brock was feeling the chill seeping through his jeans into his bones, and his nose was getting a good jolt of it as well. Still not as cold as he knew it could and would get, but fall was preparing for winter here. As he set Erica’s rolling suitcase on the ground, extending the handle before handing it off to her, he commented, “It’s got to be close to freezing.”
“Guess you should’ve worn a coat.”
“What’s wrong with the jacket? It’s warm enough.” He was wearing a lined black leather jacket that was more than enough most times and, once he adjusted to the temperature here, it would be fine. It was just quite a bit cooler than home and he needed to acclimate.
“Oh, honey, so good to see you.” An older woman embraced Erica before turning her attention on him. “And you must be Brock. I wish I could say I’d heard a lot about you, but it would be a lie. No matter. We’ll get to know each other soon enough.” He hadn’t expected it, but the woman pulled him into a big hug, too.
He hated to admit that it made him feel warmer than the jacket.
Followed by her letting go, Erica’s father pulled him into a hearty handshake. “Brock, very nice to meet the man who has captured my daughter’s heart. My house is your house, as they say.”
“Thank you, sir.” Yes, it was definitely going to be difficult breaking her parents’ hearts.
“Come in,” her mother said, an arm back around Erica’s shoulders. “I have hot cocoa ready to go. Only take five minutes to get you a mug.”
They all walked up the stone path toward the house, with Erica’s father pulling her luggage.
Once inside, Brock felt a tiny pang of…was that jealousy? He’d grown up in a large middle-class home complete with vaulted ceilings and art pieces he and his brothers weren’t allowed to touch. Unlike it, this home was cozy and inviting, mirroring Erica’s parents—which made him wonder a little about her. She was a lot of things, but she’d never felt inviting. For all he knew, though, she might have felt like she had to wear a mask to fit in with other lawyers—and that wasn’t necessarily a bad stance. A fire burned brightly inside a stone frame, warming the entire living room.
“Let’s take your coats,” her father said, pausing inside the living room once they’d closed the door, shutting out the bitter cold.
Brock thanked the older man again. He appeared to be about his father’s age, but this graying man had a head full of hair. Erica had the man’s eyes, an earthy brown, shiny and a bit mischievous. He held his jacket while her father hung Erica’s on a peg over a wooden bench.
“I’m going to get that hot cocoa going. Do you want any, honey?”
“Is the sky blue?”
Erica’s mom chuckled and rolled her eyes before exiting toward the kitchen. In that woman’s face, he could see all of Erica’s other features—her high cheekbones and strong chin, her slender but short body, and her more-than-adequate breasts.
“Okay,” said her father. “I’ll show you to your rooms.”
Hmm. Brock hadn’t known e
xactly what to expect, but it didn’t completely surprise him that Erica’s parents were old-fashioned and, in spite of the phony engagement, put them in separate rooms—that was, if he understood Mr. Larson correctly. Brock knew his own parents would likely have them sharing a room—but he’d break that news to Erica later.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you that dad’s name is Darren. Mom is Loretta.”
In front of them, scaling the stairs, her father said, “Or you can call us mom and dad if that’s more comfortable. We did that with our in-laws. Just seemed to fit somehow. But no pressure—you call us whatever you like.” At the top of the stairs, her dad chuckled. “Just don’t call me late to dinner.
“Erica, your room’s in the same old place. Brock,” he said, walking down the hall a little farther, “this is the guest room. Mama put fresh sheets on the bed today and a couple of blankets. We didn’t know how you’d feel about the cold, so we gave you an extra quilt.”
“We were just talking about that on the way over, dad. Turns out Brock’s alma mater is Western.”
Oh, this woman was going to blow their cover. “You’d think we would have talked about that already.”
“Well, when you’re in love, you don’t always talk about rational subjects. And I’d imagine, with you two being lawyers, that you have lots of work-related things you like to discuss.” Dad opened the door and flipped on the switch. “I’ll let you both get settled in and then meet you down in the kitchen for cocoa.” He started walking back toward the stairs. “I suppose I should have asked if you’re even up for hot cocoa—or if you’re just so tired, you want to hit the hay.”
“It was a long drive, but I’d love to unwind and spend some time with you and mom before bed.” Erica looked over at Brock. “What about you?” Seeing her in her old surroundings seemed to soften her features, and he didn’t think she’d ever looked so lovely to him. Again, this was not good. But who was he kidding? The fact that he couldn’t really have Erica made him want her all the more.
“Whatever you want, honey.” Just in case she needed a reminder that they were playing roles.
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
Was there a bit of sarcasm in that?
“You kids,” her father said, amused. “See you downstairs.” Well, maybe it hadn’t been sarcastic, because surely her dad would have picked up on it.
Erica went into her bedroom and Brock stepped into the guest room. There was a dresser against the wall and a closet to the right, but he didn’t plan on unpacking. They’d be leaving sometime Friday and so taking everything out of the suitcase just to put it back in so soon after seemed like a complete waste of time. But he looked at the artwork on the walls—it was all something generic in the Thomas Kinkade vein of small town charm. But, he supposed, that matched the patchwork quilt on the bed and the look of unfinished log cabin walls in the bedroom instead of the traditional drywall. He knew that was the design of the house rather than reality, because he doubted those type of walls could retain heat.
He set his luggage on a chair by the window and then left the room, switching off the light. He walked the few feet to Erica’s room and tapped on the open door. She was unpacking a couple of things and hanging them up. “Yeah?”
“You trying to give away our secret?”
“What do you mean?” Before Brock could answer, she said, “You mean the whole Western’s your alma mater thing?”
“Yes.”
“I think we’re fine.”
“Yeah, I do, too, but what about the next time when your mistake’s not so easy to cover?”
“I’m sorry. I’m just a little tired.”
He nodded and stepped one foot into the room. “So this is where you grew up?”
“Yeah. Mom and dad moved here when I was a sophomore in high school. We’d lived closer to the college before that.”
“It’s a nice place.” He started looking around at the walls. There was a bulletin board above the dresser and there were photos of Erica and other people as well as what looked like an old high school football schedule and some other little things. There was also a bookshelf full of mostly paperbacks, and he couldn’t help but smile when he saw that Perry Mason took up an entire row. His old bedroom? When he’d left his parents’ home, he was pretty sure his mom had converted it into a pottery studio or some such bullshit. And that was fine, because he never intended to move back.
One of the photos on her bulletin board showed Erica hugging two young women who appeared to be close to her age at that time. “When was that picture taken?”
Erica closed the drawer and turned to see which one Brock was pointing to. “Oh, that’s my cousin and one of my friends from high school.” She walked over to the bed and pulled out a small bag before walking back to the dresser and adding, “I haven’t seen her in a few years. She moved to Florida after she finished college.”
“That seems a little extreme.”
“She wanted to get out and never look back. A few of my friends were like that…but I’ve always loved my home.”
Telling her about the real him would be dangerous—but he was going to do it anyway. Being honest with her might allow her to want to help him for more reasons than just moving up the ladder in the firm. “I was a lot like that. You want to get out of the nest and stretch—but when I got out, I realized maybe home hadn’t been so bad.”
“I don’t think Carly will ever feel that way. We try to keep in touch, so we email each other every six months or so. She loves it there. I think she tries to come home for a few days every year, but she doesn’t miss it.”
“What about you?”
Erica took a deep breath and looked around her room as if trying to locate something deep inside. “Yes, I miss it, sometimes terribly. But I’ve built a life somewhere else and I’m giving it a go. I know home is always here if I need it.”
“Seems like a healthy attitude.”
She walked back to the bed and zipped up the suitcase before pulling it down and rolling it against the wall. “Ready?”
Brock couldn’t resist the impulse to pull her close, because even though she still projected the strong, independent woman vibe, she had opened herself up a little, and underneath the shell, he saw innocence, sweetness, and maybe even a little vulnerability. He was pretty sure he liked everything about this woman. Lust? Yeah, in spades…but to actually like her as a person, value her as not just a woman but more…
That made her real.
That made her almost a friend.
Or more.
But he wasn’t thinking about all that as he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her into his body. “So why the separate rooms? Don’t most engaged people sleep together before marriage?”
Her glowering chocolate eyes made her sexy as hell, and the thought of friendship had already disappeared like a thick fog breaking up under the sun. “Nice try. Lucky for us, my parents have traditional ideas about what couples should and shouldn’t do before marriage.”
He wanted to get under her skin. Pressed against her, he remembered just how much he wanted her, and so there was no controlling himself. “Are you telling me you’re a virgin, Erica? The good little daughter who waits for marriage?”
Her voice was barely audible when she hissed, “Don’t be daft, Brock. My parents might like the appearance, but they’re not stupid.”
The smirk on his face couldn’t be helped. “I just think our act would be more believable if we actually slept together.”
Struggling out of his grip, she said, “Nice try, mister, but I wouldn’t sleep with you even if you offered me your dad’s position.” She let out a huff and smoothed the form-fitting long-sleeved fuchsia t-shirt she’d worn for the trip. “Now…let’s go spend some time with my parents—if you think you can behave yourself.”
She would never admit it, but he knew he’d scored. He could tell she was thinking about having sex with him and that was a first step to actual conquest. Hoping his expression seemed m
ollified despite feeling like he’d won a victory, he nodded and held out his arm. “Lead the way, milady.”
The only thing now was to keep himself from admiring the way she walked and looked in her snug blue jeans, because being a lusty guy would completely undermine the fiancé feeling, maybe having her parents calling their bluff—and he couldn’t have that after working so damn hard to get here.
Chapter Eight
HOW HER MOTHER did it every year with no help at all amazed Erica, especially after the morning they’d had. She’d risen at seven so she could help her mother, because she knew the entire family would be coming for the meal, probably arriving around one o’clock. Before bed last night, mom had shown her all the pies she’d baked the day before—four pumpkin pies, one pecan, a lemon chiffon, two chocolate cream, and four cheesecakes.
Guess it helped having an entire week off from school and, unlike her father, mom had no papers to grade or class preparation for the following week—she had nothing but free time. When Erica had been growing up, though, her grandmother would have Thanksgiving at her house. Mom would make a dish or two and a couple of pies and then they would head to grandma’s around ten so mom could help her put the finishing touches on the big meal, but since grandma had passed a few years ago, mom had taken up her mantle, and the entire Ruskin family—mom’s relatives—continued gathering, just not at grandma’s. Dad’s family hailed from Grand Junction, and the family spent part of Christmas break and different times in the summer with them.
It wasn’t just the love she felt for her mother and father that brought her home but also her love for their traditions. On this particular day, she would see family members that she hadn’t seen in a year. Yes, they kept in touch through Facebook, but Erica knew that was a watered-down version of whatever her relatives were really going through, and it wasn’t the same as having a conversation. She was nearly giddy with excitement, even when she learned that her brother and his wife and kids were going to be spending the day with her parents in Santa Fe.
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