by Brea Viragh
“You have a good eye for color,” he said at last.
“Are you done buttering me up?” Nasira questioned. “I’m not a foolish girl anymore. I can distinguish false compliments from facts and I know when someone is trying to use me.”
She tossed her hair again, unable to stop the motion. It annoyed her that she was off-balance. Had to work to get her bearing. The sight of him was causing a strange sensation in her gut.
Probably heartburn.
“I’m not buttering you up.” Brock took his time climbing the steps to the porch. Soon they were even, though he stood a full head taller than she. “I’m trying to give you an honest compliment. The house looks terrific. You have to be proud of the work you’ve done.”
“I am, yes.”
There was a bite in her tone. It had him looking at her with a smirk. Dammit, it wouldn’t do to let him know he’d gotten under her skin. She returned the smile to her face and held up her hand to stop him from coming any closer. “Thank you for the compliment. My latest project was the sidewalk. You can take a closer look on your way out.”
“You are going to let me inside, Nasira Khepri, whether you like it or not.”
And once again, her hackles rose. “Are you threatening me?”
Without answering, Brock swooped in and threw her over his shoulder.
She squealed in surprise. “What the hell are you doing? Put me down!” She beat at the muscles of his back, kicking her feet in the air.
He used his free hand to open the door. “I’m sorry it had to be this way. You wouldn’t listen,” he said to her calmly. Avoiding her fist by an inch. “I told you there are things we need to discuss.”
He’d always been like that. Willing to do what needed to be done even when no one else was. His past as a high school football star helped. Certainly allowed him to ignore the elbows and knees working their way into the soft parts of his anatomy.
When force did not work, Nasira settled for icy and indignant. “Just because you act like a caveman doesn’t mean I’m ready to open up. Dragging me, by my hair or anything else, won’t help your cause.”
She dug her palm into his shoulder and squeezed, hard, until he winced. The benefit of capturing animals for a living; Nasira had thumbs of steel and knew exactly where to press to bring about the desired effect.
He brought her down the long hallway and made sure she didn’t hit her head on the staircase or railing. “You left me no choice.”
No matter how hard she hit him, Brock refused to relent.
What an asshole.
She gave into one last splinter of fury and lashed out, her foot colliding with a shelf and knocking books and bowls and bric-a-brac to the floor. What nerve he had, coming back and throwing her around with his horrible, bloated sense of entitlement. Like he had the right to touch her. To push his way into her house and her life and expect her to sit there and let him.
He’d stood there trying to compliment her house, trying to worm his way back into her good graces and shoot her his signature lopsided smile. Was she supposed to accept his presence and be happy?
Yeah, it wasn’t happening in this lifetime.
Asshole, absolutely. She wanted to wipe his smug grin off his face and make him pay for what he’d done to her. Unfortunately, she had taken a vow not to hurt anyone. She wondered if the universe would make an exception for Brock.
“Now, look? See what you did?” he called out and continued to walk. “You broke your pretty things.”
“You leave my pretty things out of this!”
Wiggling, she was unprepared when he dropped her unceremoniously on the couch. She’d been prepared to see him, at least. In her mind. She’d known he would try and seek her out eventually; it was the way he worked. Always keeping on the bright side of life even when the situation didn’t warrant it.
Her reaction to him took her by surprise. The icy resolve was fine, but not the fury, the sadness, the pain. And even worst, the happiness. Sheer, unadulterated happiness so shocking she felt dizzy.
No, she warned herself. Not happiness. Never that. As though the past seven years had disappeared. Yes, she’d walked away from him. It was the right thing to do at that point in her life. But she’d been a mess, hiding the true depth of her feelings from everyone, crying herself to sleep for weeks. Months. She missed him desperately and wished to take back her decision though her pride would not allow it.
It had been necessary, she recalled. She burned the bridge to give him the opportunity to leave. To live. She needed to be the strong one so they both had a chance to succeed.
Why did she feel this angry with him?
“Talk to me.” Brock stared at her with his hands on his hips, willing her to try and run again.
She knew what would happen if she did and shivered as she remembered the feel of him against her.
Those hazel eyes took her in from head to toe. “Are you done with your snit?” he asked.
“No.” She tapped her fingers on the arm of the sofa, a gesture of controlled impatience. “I’m sorry, Brock, but I really think it’s better for you to go home. And looming over me like some sort of testosterone-laden guardian isn’t making me feel better.”
“Coffee.”
“Excuse me?”
“Coffee.” He gestured over his shoulder. “If I go into the kitchen to make some for us, are you going to run out the door?”
“You leave my coffee maker alone! It’s mine.”
“God, you sound like a toddler.” He studied her and she leaned back under the scrutiny. “I don’t remember you ever having a case of the mines.”
“You’ll excuse me if I’m a little unwilling to share a cup of anything with you,” she said.
“I don’t know. I can’t for the life of me figure out why you are.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously. It’s been seven years, Naz. Can’t we get over what happened and try to be friends again?”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Sure, she’d entertained the fantasies. He would come back after realizing he could not live without her. They could both forgive and forget, get on with their lives together because there was nowhere to go but up. Of course, those were the dreams of a lovesick teenager. Now, as an adult, she knew better.
With age came wisdom and jaded sensibility.
“Why not?” Brock asked.
Her eyes bugged out. “What do you mean, why?”
“Why is it not a good idea? Because from where I stand, it’s the best thing I’ve heard in a long time.”
“I just…” she trailed off. Truth be told, she didn’t have a reason beyond her personal feelings. Nothing he would understand and accept as logical. She blew out a breath. “Fine, go make some coffee.”
The smile he gave her would have melted an iceberg. She hated it. “You won’t regret this.” He hurried to the door and disappeared around the corner.
“I already do,” Nasira told the empty room.
She pushed her emotions aside. Be a reasonable adult, she admonished herself. There is no earthly reason to be unpleasant or uncivil.
She didn’t rise to help him, listening to the sounds from the kitchen. Cups clinked together and soon the scent of fresh brewing coffee filled the air. The man had always known his way around a stove. She remembered those days at the farmhouse, watching Brock help his grandmother and brothers with the family style dinner. How she’d sat around the table with a cold drink in her hands and watched the adept way he moved between stations, helping a little here, a little there. Even as a preteen he could chop vegetables with the skill of a much older person.
Her own jack of all trades.
“I like what you’ve done with the kitchen,” he called out in his deep baritone. “It gives me ideas for my own place.”
Nasira leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. “Mom told me you moved back to the old house?”
“Yeah, I just got in a week ago.”
“A little crazy. Nostalgic. I’m still in the process of unpacking and trying to get everything situated. And there are a lot of renovation projects making it onto my list.”
“The house has been empty for years. I imagine it’s quite a bit of work.”
She’d watched the place. In no way would she admit it, but there were times she went the literal extra mile, traveling down the streets to spare a glance at the timeworn farmhouse. She hated seeing those empty windows like eyes in a face waiting for someone to turn on the light. Then the memories would be too much and she went on. Refused to go back for another few months until the urge hit her again.
“You have no idea. But I think it’s going to be good.” Brock returned with two steaming cups. They looked small, his hands dwarfing the mugs. He handed one to her. “We really enjoy it so far.”
“I can only imagine—” Then it hit her. “We?” She buried her nose in the mug and inhaled deeply, taking a tentative sip to combat the sharp slice of jealousy.
“My daughter and I.”
Nope, not a girlfriend. Nasira spit and steaming liquid spewing into the air, burning her lips. “Daughter?” she croaked out, feeling like a fire-breathing dragon.
How could Brock have had a kid? He couldn’t have a kid. Could he?
He jumped out of the way in time to avoid being scalded. “Are you okay? Your tongue!”
Nasira brushed her mouth with her finger and felt the burnt skin. Her taste buds would take days to recuperate. “Rewind and tell me again.”
“Your tongue?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You know what I mean.”
He shuffled awkwardly. “My daughter. Yeah, I wasn’t sure how to bring her up so I just sort of snuck her in. I’m sorry.”
The flash of hurt was keen and took her by surprise. “Why wouldn’t you tell me before?”
“It’s not really something you bring up in a text, or a telephone call. ‘Oh, hey, I haven’t talked to you in seven years, and I know we broke up, but I have a kid. Not that you ever answered when I tried.”
“When…” Nasira stuttered, trying to order her thoughts. “Who?”
“A mistake. She’s long gone. The divorce went through a couple months after she left. Callie is almost a year old.”
“Wow.”
He could have said a million and one things to take her by surprise. This was one she could have never imagined even in her wildest nightmares. Leave it to him to do something like that. It wasn’t in any way about her, but Nasira found her thoughts taking flight of their own accord.
There was no way to vent the horrible and unwelcome jealousy rising. She knew how his arms felt around her body and how his mouth tasted. It came back as though no years were between them to dull the memories. And unbidden, right along with her memories, she pictured Brock and the other woman, focused on each other with their arms entwined in a passionate embrace. Ex-wife? Kid?
What had she said about strange things happening? It wasn’t just a day for them. It was a damn month!
“It’s a lot to take in, I know,” Brock said with a frown. “But you needed to know if we ever go forward from here.”
“A child.”
Nasira remembered the nights of restless sleep, tossing and turning. She dreamed of a baby about a year ago. A little girl a few months old, crying softly with tiny red fists waving in the air. The soft unsettled whimpers reached her as she walked, felt the yearning in her own womb for such a thing. She hurried her steps, breasts aching. She moved to comfort the babe. Something she wouldn’t even admit to herself. A need, a desire to nurture and mother.
The one and only man she could ever picture for her partner had been Brock. She’d dated since him, and some had even been serious enough to warrant discussions of the future. Then she got bored and moved on. Most of her exes, hell, all of them, had not appreciated her independence. Could not keep up with her freight train of desires for her future. They fell by the wayside and she’d moved on without a glance in her rearview mirror.
Except for Brock. Damn him.
She’d dreamed of him. She’d dreamed of their baby. And he’d gone and made one with someone else.
“There’s no going forward from here.” Nasira sighed and pushed back from the couch. Suddenly the air felt thin. She tugged at her necklace as though it would help though she knew full well it wouldn’t. “I think you and I both know it.”
She turned her back to him and set the cup down.
“I don’t know why you have to say it like that. You aren’t a mind reader, and unless your stubborn streak has grown to an ocean, I think you and I both know there’s room for negotiation. Is this about Callie?”
“No, it’s not. It’s about me and you and how we don’t fit together anymore.”
CHAPTER 4
Five days to the eclipse…
She stiffened when he moved behind her, placed his cup on the table next to hers and trailed his hand above her skin. The motion caused her hair to rise and awareness course through her.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked slowly.
“I’m feeling my way along.” The answer was cryptic and could be taken in multiple ways. Nasira knew exactly what he meant.
“Don’t.”
Trapped between the side table and six plus feet of man, there was no way to escape even if she wanted to. One part of her recognized the closest heavy object and vowed to take action if he went any further. The other, treacherous pieces of her anatomy enjoyed the spreading heat. The way her breath quickened at his nearness and knew what would happen if she gave in.
“Don’t what?” His voice was soft. He leaned in closer.
“Don’t touch me like that. Like you have a right.” Her own came out in a tremulous whisper and Nasira cleared her throat. “I’m serious.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
He lifted his hand but stayed far enough away for her to be aware of his nearness without any physical contact.
She arched her back lightly until the tips of her hair brushed his shirt. “You know exactly what you’re doing and I don’t appreciate it.”
“I thought you would take it poorly, about Callie. I wasn’t sure how I was going to bring it up without you going for the bookend.”
“Which is still a possibility.” She felt warm breath on her ear.
“Come on now, Nasira. After what we’ve been through together and our history. We can be friendly with each other, right?”
“No.” Another moan, drawn from her throat before she could stop herself, when his fingertips traveled from her neck down along her spine.
It had been too long since she’d felt a man’s touch. More specifically, Brock’s touch.
“We’ve been plenty friendly before,” he said.
“I’m sure you’ve had your fair share of plenty over the years. Considering you’ve gone to the trouble of procreating.” A little jab, good for the digestion.
Teeth nipped lightly at her skin. “There have been a few.”
Like a bucket of cold water, those words were enough to get her out of her own way. Before Brock could comprehend the motion, she’d grabbed the vase from the table and held it aloft. “A few!”
He caught her just as the vase began its downward arch. Capturing her wrists, he spun her around and knocked the pot to the floor. It smashed into several pieces and the resulting boom had Nasira jolting.
Her heel came down hard on his instep. He released her with a howl. “You jerk!” Within the small amount of space she had to maneuver, she managed to commandeer the next largest item, a tome of stories from Egypt passed down from her grandmother.
Brock ducked to avoid the book though it clipped his shoulder. “Stop it,” he bellowed.
Refusing to be deterred, Nasira whirled for another missile and found herself toppled to the floor. Breath whooshed from her chest. “Get off me—” Her face pressed to the
wood and she growled.
“Will you stop acting like a child?” Brock braced himself on his knees and wrapped his hands around her forearms. “This is ridiculous. I don’t want to fight you. Why are you acting crazy?”
“Then leave!” she fired back at him. Unable to control her emotions.
“I’m not going anywhere until you calm down.”
She struggled against, refused to be contained any longer. With whatever strength she possessed, and some she didn’t know she had, Nasira flipped and bucked beneath him, uncaring when the bony parts of her elbows knocked into the ground. She winced, stars flashing before her eyes.
Brock held on with the tenacity of a rodeo clown and waited until she expended the last of her reserves. “Nasira, goddammit. Be done and stop this.” He rose on his knees, swinging her around until she faced him. Still she would not quiet. “You’re not acting like yourself.”
“Let go of me, Brock. Get out and leave me alone.” Her face darkened, body rigid with anger.
“I’m not going anywhere.” On a growl he brought his lips to hers. It did not surprise him when she lashed out, using her teeth and drawing a bit of blood to the surface.
He grimaced and continued his assault on her, his mouth hard and unyielding. Her lips pressed down to cut of his access to her. “You’re going to let me in,” he muttered. Even through his frustration, her rage, there was desire. But desire had never been their problem, and he was willing to bet money it never would be.
“Fuck you!” she retorted.
The instant her mouth opened he was on her, tongue thrusting between her lips and skimming against the sides of her teeth. Surprisingly she did not bite him though she parried, her hands pushing up from where he pinned them to the ground. Her hands shrunk into fists as he loosened his grip. Soon those small projectiles were beating at his chest, knocking at him. Her tongue brushed against his and still she continued to beat at him. Her heels drummed into the ground but Brock maintained his balance. The soft warmth of her pelvis arched up to meet him and he felt an instant hardening in his loins.
