Forever with You

by Jennifer L. Armentrout

  “My daughter is leaving in the spring to attend Shepherd,” Andrew said. “Of course, I want her to stay closer to home, but you can’t keep them at home with you forever, can you?”

  “You can try,” Brock muttered under his breath.

  I glanced at him. “No, sir.” There were so many colleges and universities near Philadelphia, but I understood the need to strike out on your own. “Shepherd is a very good school in a great community. She will be happy there.”

  “I think so.” The older man smiled. “I’ve actually checked the town and surrounding places out. There aren’t training facilities there, not the kind that offer the extensive experience and wide variety that we can.”

  Oh dear.

  “My daughter is . . . unaware of my inquiry, but there are several properties there that would fit our needs.” Intelligence brewed in the man’s eyes. “What do you think of Lima Academy setting up in your neck of the woods?”

  “I think there is definitely a market for it,” I answered honestly. UFC fights had been a big deal while I was at college. I could picture tons of guys I knew signing up for classes and getting their asses kicked. “And you’re right. You won’t have a lot of competition.”

  Mr. Browser nodded when Andrew turned to him and raised his brows inquiringly. “I know,” he replied patiently. “I already have several meetings set up with the local Chamber of Commerce. We should hear something before the end of the year.”

  Andrew was about to speak, but his attention was snagged by the front of the office. The lines of the man’s face softened. “Speaking of the little devil,” he said.

  I followed his gaze and saw a young girl step inside. Her light brown hair looked like she’d walked through a wind tunnel, which I could sympathize with. If my hair hadn’t been pulled back, I’d look the same.

  A mauve-­colored scarf was wrapped around her throat, tangling in the long locks. Her heavy sweater was bulky and her dark jeans loose, even ill-­fitting, giving her the appearance of having no shape. As she drew closer, I could see that her features were delicate, but the heavy bangs dwarfed her face.

  Her nervous gaze darted over us, hit Brock and then stayed there as she hurried to where we stood, her fingers fidgeting with the edges of her sleeves. Her face pinked the closer she got to us.

  “Hi, Dad.” She gave a short, awkward wave as she stopped beside Brock.

  Andrew went to her, leaning over to drop a kiss atop her head, and there was no ignoring the burst of envy that exploded inside me. “Hey, baby girl, you here to see me?” he asked as he drew back.

  My dad . . . he used to greet me like that, always so happy, always so warm. A knot replaced the churning sensation, and I struggled not to look away.

  An easy grin stretched Brock’s lips as he dropped an arm over the girl’s shoulders. He towered over her by a good foot, but he fit her to the side of his large body like he’d done it a million times. “Nah, she came to visit me. Sorry, old man.”

  Andrew laughed deeply, shaking his head while her cheeks turned as red as a strawberry. She lifted her chin, and I saw it in her eyes at that moment. The whole world had to have seen it. Adoration filled her gaze, but that wasn’t all.

  Love.

  The girl looked at Brock as if he was responsible for putting the stars in the sky at night and was the sole reason the sun rose every morning. The warmth didn’t leave her cheeks, but only seemed to heighten, and I didn’t think she was aware of anyone else as Brock grinned down at her. The pang of envy resurfaced. Mom used to look at Dad like that every single damn time their eyes met, and my dad had the same look in his eyes.

  Brock, however, reached up with the arm he had around her shoulder and messed her hair, an act I imagined an annoying older brother would do.

  Ouch.

  He dropped his hand to her shoulder, nearly knocking her over. I quickly looked away, and found that Marcus was doing the same thing, studying his groomed nails.

  “Jillian, dear, this is Stephanie,” Andrew said, drawing my attention. The girl was no longer staring adoringly at Brock, but was watching her father with a degree of hesitation. “She just graduated from Shepherd.”

  Interest sparked and her brown eyes met mine briefly. “I’m starting there in the spring. Actually, I’m transferring there.” Her gaze flickered from mine to her father, and then dropped to my shoes. “In the spring, but I already said that, so . . .”

  Brock’s hand squeezed her shoulder

  “That’s what your father was saying,” I said. “You’ll really like that.”

  “I think so,” Jillian replied, but the lack of excitement caused me to doubt that she believed it.

  I glanced at Brock, but he was staring down at her bowed head with a frown. “If you have any questions about the campus or whatever, I’ll be glad to help you,” I offered.

  Approval settled into the lines of Andrew’s face. “That’s a good idea, actually. Jillian, you could go out to get coffee with Stephanie.”

  She nodded without looking at me and, well, I could tell that was probably not going to happen. An awkward silence fell, broken by Brock. “You’re not in class today?”

  Jillian shook her head. “Nope. I had an exam, and I finished early, so I’m done until later this afternoon. I thought I’d stop by.”

  “Admit it. You heard I was back and you came to see me,” he teased, and I bit down on my lip as blood rushed back to her face. Dear God, was he that oblivious? Brock put her in what looked like a headlock. Yep. He was that oblivious. “Come on, Jilly-­bean, you can help me set up.”

  Jillian glanced at her father, and he nodded. “Go ahead and head down. I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Nice meeting you, Stephanie.” Brock said, and with his arm still around Jillian’s shoulder, steered them toward the doors. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

  “Nice meeting you, too,” I replied, giving him a tiny wave.

  They got halfway down the hall when Jillian stopped and turned halfway around. “It w-­was good meeting you.”

  I smiled at Jillian, but her face looked like a tomato about to burst. Poor girl. “Same here.”

  When they were at the doors, her father sighed heavily as he faced me. “Thank you for offering to talk to her. I doubt she’ll take you up on the offer. It’s nothing personal. She just doesn’t warm up to strangers well. Hasn’t since, well . . . in a long time, but I appreciate it nonetheless.”

  “It’s no problem. I hope she does decide to get coffee or whatever.” And I meant it.

  Andrew nodded again, and the conversation ended between us. As Marcus and Andrew disappeared into the closed office, I sat back down and reached for the mouse. Just as my fingers brushed it, I remembered the strange text.

  Tapping on the phone, I saw another message from the unknown number.

  What in the hell? Ha.

  Well, that wasn’t the response I thought I’d get. At least whoever this was didn’t type in text speak, thank God. I debated sending another pic. I had an entire arsenal of them but figured there was no point in dragging this out. I texted back, who is this, and dropped my phone in my lap.

  A few minutes later it vibrated. One glance down and my lips parted in surprise. The response didn’t make sense.

  I couldn’t believe it, couldn’t even figure out how it was possible, but I could read, and as long as something wasn’t functioning incorrectly in my head, I saw who was texting me.

  It was Nick.

  Chapter 9

  It’s Nick.

  When I didn’t respond, because I was too busy staring at my phone dumbly, it vibrated again.

  I conned Roxy into giving me your phone number.

  My eyes widened.

  Another text came through almost immediately. Mainly bc I figured at some point you’d ask for mine. I saved you the trouble. ;)
/>   Oh my word, the arrogance knew no limit. I hadn’t been planning to ask for his number. Okay, it might’ve crossed my mind, but I had decided it was best to let that sleeping dog lie. Yes. I was obviously attracted to Nick, as he was to me, but I wasn’t sure I could be just friends with him while lusting after him, and I wasn’t sure I could trust him not to have the same reaction he had last time after we got together.

  A fourth text followed. Please don’t be mad at Roxy. She likes you. But she also likes me.

  My brows rose. Irritation sparked, but it was minimal. I’d met Roxy and Katie again this past Sunday for breakfast. We hadn’t talked about Nick this time, but part of me wasn’t surprised that she’d given him my number.

  I hope you’re not mad.

  Snapping out of it, I picked up the phone and sent back: I’m not. And that was the truth. It wasn’t like I gave Roxy the impression I would flip my shit if she gave him my number. Though she probably could’ve asked first, but that was water under the bridge at this point.

  Good, he sent back. A moment passed and another text came through. Did you save my number?

  The corners of my lips curved up. I texted back: No.

  That earned me a frownie face followed by: You break my heart, Stephanie. I saved your number.

  Doubtful, was my response. But I quickly saved his number as I glanced up, hearing someone laughing from a few cubicles over.

  A ­couple of moments passed and Nick texted back. You totally saved my number, didn’t you?

  I swallowed a laugh and shook my head. Yeah, I did.

  Knew it. The three little dots appearing under the text bubbled, and I waited. So I was texting you with a purpose.

  Pressing my lips together, I sent back a quick reply. You were?

  Ha. There was a pause, and then, Reece is having a get-­together at his place tonight. A small one. Roxy is working, but I thought you might like to come?

  My stomach tumbled instead of churned, and I wasn’t sure if I liked that sensation or not. Hesitation filled me, something I wasn’t at all accustomed to. I normally knew what I wanted to do, but for the first time in a very long time, I was unsure.

  Chewing on my lower lip, I glanced up and looked around the office. Not like the answer to what I should do awaited me in the light fixtures. I flipped my gaze back to the phone and started to text back.

  I haven’t been feeling well. That was the truth. But if I’m feeling okay tonight . . . What in the hell was I doing? I didn’t know, but I was doing it, doing it real hard. . . . I could stop by. What time does it start?

  The three little dots appeared. Around 8pm. You okay?

  Yeah, just stomach kind of messed up. Probably something he didn’t need to know. I’ll text you later and let you know.

  Ok. I hope you feel better.

  Thanks.

  There were no more texts after that, and as the seconds turned into minutes, and minutes into hours, I still had absolutely no clue what I was doing.

  And I wasn’t sure if I loathed that feeling.

  Or if I sort of liked it.

  I got home a little after six-­thirty and changed into a pair of jeans and a loose sweater that was made out of a soft chenille material. I loved this sweater so much I wanted to snuggle with it, but that would be weird.

  Barefoot, I padded into the kitchen and opened the pantry doors. I stood there for several minutes, picking at a packet of tuna fish and then moving onto the boxes of rice. Neither of those things interested me, so I moseyed on to the fridge. Microwavable bacon was somewhat appealing, but the sliced honey ham and Swiss cheese would be more filling. I didn’t want those either. Closing the door, I opened the freezer. There was a packet of hamburger meat and a steak, but both were frozen solid, and I hated defrosting meat in the microwave, so that didn’t do me any good. Sighing, I closed that door, too. I was hungry but not. My stomach seemed to be feeling better but my appetite was most definitely weird.

  Opening the drawer near the stove, I started scanning the take-­out menus I’d already started to accumulate since moving here. Chinese. Pizza. Italian. Subs. All of it looked good, but nothing sparked my interest as it should.

  I glanced at the clock as I held a Chinese menu and felt my tummy tighten in a mixture of excitement and confusion, which was an odd combination. Whoever was going to Reece’s thing tonight would be arriving in the next hour or so. Nick would be arriving.

  Nick.

  Dammit.

  I still had no idea if I was going to stop by Reece’s or how I really even felt about Nick getting my phone number, contacting me, and then inviting me to his friend’s place.

  If he was looking for something casual between us, the invite wasn’t strange. That was actually pretty common, but I had a hard time believing he sincerely thought that would happen between us so soon after what went down at the bar.

  Turning my gaze to the menu, I let out a deep sigh and then dropped it back on the counter. There was a packet of Reese’s Halloween pumpkins. Would that count as dinner if I just ate all nine of them?

  Sounded legit to me.

  Picking up a thick bobby pin, I twisted my hair into a loose knot and shoved the pin in. I was just about to pick up the menus again when there was a knock at my door. My heart turned over as I closed the drawer. With my pulse picking up, I walked to the door and took a quick peek through the peephole even though I had an idea who it could be.

  I was right.

  Nick stood in the hallway outside my apartment. Curious, I unlocked the door and opened it. He turned toward me, and there was this squeezing type pressure in my chest. Not unpleasant, but . . . but wholly unfamiliar to me.

  His hair was damp, the dark strands curling along his forehead. Drops of rain dotted his powerful shoulders. When had it started raining? God, I’d really had a single-­minded focus on those menus, with nothing to show for it.

  “Hi,” I said, my gaze dropping to the plastic bag he held.

  “Hey,” he drawled, and my stare was dragged back up. He looked good, but I figured he always looked good, from the moment he woke up to when he rested that head of his on a pillow. “I brought you something.”

  Blinking, I stepped back. “You did?”

  “Yeah. Can I come in?”

  I nodded and watched him walk in and close the door. He took the bag to the small bistro table I had set up in the dining area. I was at a loss for words when he started speaking.

  “When I was younger and not feeling well, my mom used to make me homemade chicken noodle soup.” Nick pulled out a plastic container and faced me. “It’s a lot better than the canned stuff. She used to drop in some herbs that are good for settling the stomach and actually give the soup a good taste so it’s not so bland.” He headed for the kitchen. “Your bowls here?”

  “Above the left counter.” I was frozen.

  He pulled out a ceramic bowl, put it on the counter and peeled back the plastic container lid. Carefully, he dumped the noodles, chunks of chicken, and broth into the bowl. “It’s still a little warm but it needs to be heated up a bit. Microwave okay?”

  My lips slowly parted. It was obvious it was not canned soup. “Yes. Microwave is fine.” I inched closer to the kitchen. “Did your . . . did your mom make that.”

  “No.” Nick placed the bowl in the microwave. Little beeps echoed through the silence. He placed his hands on the counter before the microwave, his back to me. “My mom died thirteen years ago.”

  “Oh.” I placed my hand on my chest. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  He nodded, but the line of his spine was tense, his shoulders hunched. I opened my mouth because losing a parent was something I could relate to, but beyond what I’d already said, I couldn’t find the words. It wasn’t something I talked about often. The microwave dinged and he removed the bowl. The aroma was wonderful, making my stomac
h grumble happily. Finding a spoon, he brought the soup back to the table. His lashes lifted, moss green eyes meeting mine.

  I drew in shaky breath. “Did you make the soup?”

  Nick nodded once more.

  “Oh. I . . .” I couldn’t believe he had brought me soup, let alone taken the time to make it himself. All of this was so incredibly sweet and extremely unexpected; I couldn’t speak. I just stood there, staring at him like an idiot.

  The hollows under his high cheekbones turned pink. “It’s not that hard.”

  “I don’t know how to make chicken soup from scratch.”

  A small smiled pulled at his striking features. “Maybe I’ll teach you one day.”

  “You really made me soup?”

  The smile spread as he ducked his chin. “Yeah, I did. You going to sit and eat it? I promise it will make your stomach feel better.”

  In a daze, I shuffled over to the table. My stomach was twisting again, but it had nothing to do with the nausea I’d felt earlier in the day. I sat at the table, and honest to God, I was moved to the point where I wasn’t even thinking of his douchey behavior in the bar.

  “Thank you,” I said, my voice strangely hoarse. “I mean it. Thank you.”

  “It’s no biggie.” He handed over a spoon. “Eat up.”

  My fingers brushed his as I took the spoon. The shiver that raced up my arm was hard to ignore as I scooped up some noodles, steaming broth, and a chunk of chicken. My taste buds practically orgasmed. “It’s delicious.” I glanced up, my eyes wide. “I can taste something kind of minty.”

  Nick folded his arms. “You look so surprised. I’m actually a damn good cook.”

  “I am not doubting that now.” I swallowed another mouthful, biting back a moan.

  His lashes lowered, shielding his eyes. “I thought I could bring it by before I headed up to Reece’s. I’m a little early, but he’ll be okay—­”

  “You don’t have to leave,” I said in a rush, and then felt the tips of my ears burning. “I mean, if you want to hang out here for a little bit, you can.”