Fire In You: Volume Six (Wait for You Series)

by J. Lynn

  Brock had.

  “But those apologies aren’t enough,” he added.

  I studied his profile, dread building as I started to understand him. “You don’t have to be friends with me because of what happened, because you feel guilty or—”

  “It’s not that. Not what I mean at all.” His gaze flew to mine and he leaned in toward me, leaving only a few scant inches between us. “I don’t want you to come to work and stress about having to avoid me. I want you to be comfortable there.” A lock of brown hair fell forward, brushing his forehead. “I know what I’m asking for is a lot. I know that there’s a good chance I don’t even deserve it, but I want us to be friends, Jillian.”

  Friends.

  God, at one time, hearing him say that would’ve shattered my poor heart into smithereens, but now? I didn’t know how to feel about that. Brock and I, as silly as it sounded back then with the age difference, had been best friends. Losing all that girlish hope that one day we’d have that romance-book happily-ever-after had been terrible. Ending the friendship had hurt worse, because when I cut him out of my life, I lost my closest friend—my partner in crime and adventure.

  “Can we do that?” he asked. “I’m being for real. When I said last Monday this felt like a second chance, I meant that. Can we at least try?”

  Honestly, I wasn’t sure—had no idea if I could truly be friends with Brock. Not because he hadn’t returned my feelings once upon a time. It didn’t even have anything to do with what had happened to me the night Brock claimed he’d let me down in the worst ways possible, because I didn’t blame him for what happened.

  But I wasn’t sure if we could be friends without me . . . without me falling deep again, slipping under, and catching the kind of feelings for him that would inevitably end in another heartbreak.

  It wasn’t that I was that weak when it came to the opposite sex, but Brock had a kind of magnetism that drew you in, even when you resisted. It was that teasing playfulness of him, the way he doled out affection once he got to know you and how he easily, with no effort, made you feel like you were the most important person in his world. It was how he made you forget that all those things didn’t necessarily make you a special snowflake. It was just how he was, and even the brightest and strongest women out there could be sucked in.

  But Brock wasn’t available. He was engaged. There was a barbed-wire-covered wall between us, a deep line in the sand that would never allow me to even ponder those thoughts. Not that I was thinking them now.

  “And if you think we can’t, what do I have to do to change your mind?” His jaw softened. “More doughnuts? I’m sure you still like Reese’s Pieces. I can include a weekly supply as a part of your employment package.”

  I started to smile, so I curved my fingers over my mouth.

  “What do you say?” he asked, nudging my arm with his.

  Glancing up at him as I lowered my hand, I decided I could at least try, because it would make working together easier. I was getting tired of pretending I was on the phone. “Okay.”

  The smile that spread across his face proved a man could be masculine and beautiful, because that smile robbed the air right out of my lungs, and I immediately had to picture those barbed-wire-covered walls and the mile-deep line in the sand.

  Friends.

  I could do this.

  Chapter 9

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “No.” Brock, who was currently hovering behind my chair Friday morning, reached around me and snatched the mouse out from underneath my hand. “I think you need to click that.”

  “No, I don’t.” I smacked his hand away, taking control of the mouse as I tried to move the graphic over so it was centered. Brock’s sigh stirred the hair along my left cheek, sending a shiver curling down my spine.

  “All you have to do is click on the centering button.”

  “Yeah, I already did that.” I leaned to the right when he tried grabbing for the mouse again. I swatted his hand again. “Don’t you have something better to do?” I asked, scooting my chair back, which forced him to step aside. I looked up as he moved to lean against my desk. “Approving advertisements is my job. I would already have this done if you weren’t in here trying to backseat computer click me.”

  “Backseat computer click?” His forehead creased. “That sounds kind—”

  “Don’t even say it.”

  An innocent look crossed his face. “Apparently it’s not me who has their mind in the gutter. I was going to say it sounded like a video game.”

  “Uh-huh.” Slowly, carefully, I moved the mouse just a fraction of a centimeter, successfully centering the block of text. “Ah-ha! Done.”

  “You’re so talented.”

  I shot him a look, and he grinned.

  Paul appeared in the open doorway. He was a tall and lithe, middle-aged man with fair blond hair and bright blue eyes. Dressed in the Lima Academy polo and black nylon pants, he blended in with any number of the sales associates out on the floor, but he was one of the trainers from the second floor. He’d been here since the Academy opened.

  I didn’t know him very well since the trainers and scouts were mostly Brock’s responsibility, but whenever he looked at me, like he did now, I had the harsh impression that he thought my position was pretty useless.

  Most of the employees appeared to accept me, like Andre had insisted would be the case, but Paul looked at me like I was about as wanted as a cold sore.

  He also reminded me of that dickhead who used to work in Philly, the one who cornered me in the supply room.

  “Mr. Mitchell, do you have a moment?” Paul asked, his glacial gaze moving from me to Brock. “I have a couple of new students that I’d like you to check out.” He raised a file. “And see if you’d like to get them on film.”

  “Be right there.” Tapping the bridge of my nose like I was five, Brock rose as he winked, and then swaggered out of the office.

  Of course I watched him.

  I couldn’t help myself. He gave good rear, which was annoying. I mean, where did he get those trousers and why did they fit his ass so well? Why?

  Shaking my head, I turned my attention back to the computer and finished tweaking and approving the ads that had been submitted.

  A couple hours later, after the daily sales meeting in the back conference room, I was gathering up the reports from the table when Brock asked, “So, you got any big plans for the weekend?”

  I glanced over at him. His head was bowed as he scanned one of the sales reports that Jeffery had turned in. “Um, tonight, I’m babysitting Avery and Cam’s kids. It’s their date night.”

  “That’s nice of you to do on a Friday night,” he remarked and then asked, “Is that how you normally spend your Friday nights?”

  Cradling the stack of papers to my chest, I stared at the top of his dark head. “Not usually.”

  “So you normally go out?”

  I started to frown. “Sometimes.” Okay, that was a total lie, but the last thing I wanted Brock to know was that I was sitting at home with my mean, traitorous cat, alone and eating brownie batter. “Tomorrow I’m going to see an art exhibit.”

  Brock slowly lifted his head. His eyes narrowed until only a thin slit of obsidian could be seen. “An art exhibit? That sounds . . . stimulating.”

  The mocking, teasing tone pricked at my nerves. “Yes. I’m going with Grady.”

  “Grady? That little guy you were at dinner with?”

  Little guy? “He’s not little.”

  “He’s little.”

  “Maybe compared to your gigantic, Godzilla-sized self, he’s little, but by normal human standards, he’s not.”

  A smirk graced his full mouth as he leaned back in the chair at the head of the table. “I always thought you liked my gigantic, Godzilla-sized self. If I remember correctly, you loved that I could pick you up and throw you several feet in the air and into the pool.” He tapped the corner of his lips. “And I could do that because of
my size.”

  My cheeks flushed as I hastily glanced over my shoulder, grateful that none of the employees were anywhere near the conference room. “Yeah, well, I’m not ten anymore, Brock.”

  “Huh.” He folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. “I also clearly remember doing that when you were twenty.”

  The heat in my cheeks continued. “Is there a point to this conversation?”

  He chuckled, glancing back at his paperwork. “Not really.”

  Eyeing him, I started to turn and then stopped, facing him once more. We were . . . friends now. Friends meant I got to ask him about his weekend. “So, do you have any plans?”

  “After work, I’m heading back to Philadelphia,” he answered, still looking down at the pages.

  I guessed he was going home to Kristen. Or maybe she was at his home outside of Shepherdstown. They were engaged, so I imagined they lived together. “Are you keeping the house in Pennsylvania?”

  Brock shook his head. “No. I’m in the process of selling it.”

  “So, the move down here is permanent?”

  “It’s looking that way.”

  A weird little burst of happiness lit up my chest, and I ignored it, not even wanting to look into the reasoning behind it. I wanted to ask him about his fiancée, but it seemed too weird to do so. “Well, have a good weekend, Brock.”

  “You too,” he said, and when I turned and reached the door, he spoke again. “Is the little man known as Grady someone you’re seeing seriously?”

  Rolling my eyes, I twisted back around. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen with Grady, but he didn’t need to know that. “I’m looking forward to seeing him tomorrow.”

  Brock looked up just then, a slight smile on his face. “I know. I can hear all the excitement in your voice. Have fun looking at . . . artwork.”

  I had this distinct feeling he was baiting me, but I really didn’t understand why. “I will.”

  His head tilted to the side. “You deserve better.”

  “What?”

  Putting the papers down once more, he held my gaze. “You deserve better than him.”

  For a moment, I couldn’t even respond, and then I laughed. “Are you feeling okay?”

  His jaw tightened. “I’m feeling perfectly fine.”

  “I’m asking because you’re telling me I deserve better than a man you don’t even know anything about.” Anger, sweet and empowering, rushed me. “And frankly, it is not your place or your business to even suggest something like that.” On a roll, I lifted my chin. “And if you really want us to be friends, you can’t say crap like that to me.”

  Silence stretched out between us and then he spoke.

  “I don’t know you anymore,” he said quietly, and when I didn’t respond—couldn’t because the statement caught me off-guard, he tipped his head back. “I know the old Jillian. Could sit here all day and tell you about her, but this Jillian? I don’t know her.” A wry grin appeared. “But I want to.”

  Thinking maybe something went wrong with his brain, all I could do was stare at him.

  “By the way, I want something to be clear between us,” he said, holding my wide gaze. “There is not a single moment in the last two weeks that I’ve looked at you and seen the little girl I used to throw in the pool. I see a woman—a beautiful woman. Don’t tell yourself otherwise.”

  * * *

  That night, as I lay in bed, unable to force my brain to slow down long enough to fall asleep or to get engrossed in the book I was reading, I stared up at my ceiling, slightly obsessing over what Brock had said to me before I left.

  It wasn’t the beautiful part.

  Brock tossed out flattery like it was going out of style. Considering what had happened to my face, I wasn’t bad. I could be passably pretty on a good day. Beautiful I was not.

  No, it wasn’t that at all, even as nice as it had sounded coming from those well-formed lips. It was the part where he said he didn’t see a little girl when he looked at me, and all I could think about was the day I’d thought I was going to change that between us.

  Standing in my old bedroom, I didn’t need to look around to see that it looked exactly like it had when I left three years ago.

  Little girl bed.

  Little girl dresser.

  Little girl nightstand.

  Posters of my favorite books that had been adapted into movies were tacked to the wall. An old teddy bear sat on the window seat, nestled between blue and pink throw pillows, their colors still vibrant as the day my mom had placed them there. Bookshelves lined the entirety of one wall, breaking only in two sections to allow entry to the closet and the attached bathroom.

  Hundreds of books were stacked into those shelves, meticulously organized by genre and then by author’s last name. Mom had started my love of reading when I was a teen, and I devoured historical romances, and those old, musty-smelling paperbacks were stacked one on top of the other, three rows deep. An entire bookcase was dedicated to young adult and then another held all the adult romances I’d collected, or hoarded, ranging from sweet to downright blush-inducing steaminess. The final, the fourth bookcase, was half-full. It contained a few thrillers and old textbooks I didn’t sell back, but also didn’t have room in my dorm at Shepherd to store.

  Being in this bedroom brought back a lot of good memories. Me curled up on the window seat reading. Me lying on my side in the double bed late at night with only the small lamp casting just enough light to read. Me standing at the other window, the one that overlooked the driveway, watching Brock drive away after he was over for one of the many family dinners.

  Being in this room also made me feel like I was still that little girl that was never going to grow up and leave, but I wasn’t her anymore. I’d done just that.

  I walked over to the dresser, where I placed the Saint Sebastian medallion I’d found in a hippie store in Shepherdstown. It was about the size of a quarter, dangling from an old sterling silver necklace. I’d once read that he was the patron saint of athletes, so whenever I came across one, I always picked it up for Brock. Carefully gathering it up, I placed it in the little zipper pocket inside my purse.

  Stepping in front of the full-length mirror, I barely recognized the person staring back at me. I’d left my hair down, spent about an hour with the curling iron so the thick hair fell in waves. I’d managed to coax my bangs to the side and they were held in place with about a can of hair spray.

  I was actually wearing eyeliner, which had taken about five tries to get right, and I still wasn’t sure I’d applied it to my upper lid correctly after watching several thirteen-year-olds giving tutorials on YouTube.

  Nothing makes you feel inept more than seeing a tween apply makeup better than you.

  But shimmery lilac eyeshadow warmed my brown eyes, the red lipstick made my lips look fuller, and the bronze highlighter on my cheeks complimented my darker skin tone.

  Gone were the usual baggy, shapeless shirts and skirts I usually wore. I’d bought this dress specifically for tonight, and I’d never worn anything like it before. It was black and tight around the chest, showing off what I normally hid. The waist gathered under the breasts and was loose around the belly and hips, camouflaging the rounded hips no amount of cardio would get rid of. The flirty hem of the dress skimmed the top of my thighs.

  I was even wearing heels—black heels with all these straps.

  There was a good chance I’d break my neck tonight, but I felt . . .

  I felt pretty. Maybe even . . . sexy.

  Heat invaded my cheeks, and I rolled my eyes at myself. Fiddling with the bangle around my wrist, I turned and checked the time. I’d need to leave soon. My stomach dropped a little, and I forced myself to take a deep breath as I turned back to the mirror.

  Tiny little balls of nerves filled my stomach. I’d spent so much time with Brock, years really. Spending time together in the pool in the backyard, when the summer days were long and the nights even longer. Sharing dinners with
my family and sitting side by side on the porch swing. Chasing after him and my younger uncles when they left to play ball or headed to the Academy to train. Katie had been right earlier. I had been Brock’s shadow since I was eight and he was fourteen. Most boys his age would’ve been annoyed with a girl snapping at his heel every waking second he was around her, but Brock never made me feel like I was unwanted or that he was annoyed.

  In spite of our age difference, he’d become my closest friend. When my uncles or cousins didn’t want me tagging along, he was there to stand up for me and always made sure I was included. He talked to me about things—about his father and his mother—things I knew he spoke to no one else about, especially the girls he hooked up with. We shared secrets and stories. When high school became . . . became hard, he was a shelter whenever I saw him. He never treated me a certain way because of who my father was or what my family did. And when every guy at my school had been too afraid to ask me out because of said crazy family, it had been Brock who had escorted me to my senior prom after I’d said I wasn’t going.

  I smiled at the memory.

  Prom had been insane. I was seventeen and he had just turned twenty-three. Besides the fact that he was the oldest guy there and that would’ve been super weird, Brock was already quietly famous among those who watched the fights. Pretty sure he spent more time posing for photographs than we did dancing, but if I hadn’t been in love with him before, I fell hard and fast then.

  He’d been like a brother to me up until, well, I started staring a little too long at the way his arms flexed or how his bottom lip was fuller than the top one. And then he’d gotten his first tattoo at seventeen, one of many, and I stopped thinking of him as a brother. He just never stopped seeing me as a little sister.

  But tonight would be different.

  “I’m ready,” I said out loud, to my reflection. “I’m more than ready.”

  I had been ready that Saturday night, ready to change how things were between us, except that night ended with him . . . with him meeting the girl who would become his fiancée and me . . . with me ending up in the hospital, almost dead.