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

by J. Lynn

  He opened the passenger door and extended a hand. Eyeing him curiously, I grabbed my purse off the floor beside my feet and stepped out. “You really don’t have to do this,” I stressed.

  “I want to.” Brock walked beside me, hands shoved into the pockets of his pants as we headed for the stairs. Luckily, I was on the third floor. Any further, I so wouldn’t have taken the apartment. He looked around, scanning the parking lot and the apartments with soft glows illuminating from their windows. “It’s quiet here.”

  “It is.” Holding his jacket closed, I trailed my hand along the railing as we climbed the outdoor stairs. “I imagine at your new place it really is.”

  “The only thing you hear are birds and what I’m convinced is a bobcat or some shit.”

  I laughed. “A bobcat?”

  “I’m telling you, sometimes in the middle of the night, you hear some weird shit. Other than that, it’s pretty amazing.” He paused as we rounded the second level. “You should check it out.”

  Glancing over at him, I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Was it a friendly offer? Or more? And why would I think it would be more? I had no idea, so I just nodded.

  He didn’t say anything as we reached the third level and headed down the wide hall. My apartment was all the way to the end, on the corner. We stopped, and for some reason, my heart started pounding like I’d climbed way more than three flights of stairs.

  “Well, thank you for . . . um, walking me up here.” Dipping my chin, I dug my keys out from the bottom of my purse and then looked up. “And for . . .”

  I trailed off, because Brock stepped into me, so close that the toes of his shoes brushed against mine.

  “And for . . . ?” he queried softly.

  I had no idea what I had been about to say. A little dazed, I shook my head to clear my thoughts. “For driving me around today like my own personal chauffeur.”

  “I enjoyed it.” Brock’s smile was brief as he glanced at my door, and then his shoulders rose with a deep breath. “I think I missed my calling.”

  “Really?” I said wryly.

  “Yeah. I could quit my job as GM. Get one of your uncles back down here and just dedicate my entire life to driving you around.”

  I shook my head. “You know, that doesn’t sound bad actually. I hate driving.”

  One eyebrow rose. “I thought you liked driving?”

  “I used to, but now I pretty much only drive just to get back and forth from work, and that kind of sucks the fun out of it.”

  “I can see that.” He paused. “You tired?”

  “Um . . .” I was so articulate.

  His grin returned. “If not, I thought maybe we could share a . . . drink.”

  “I . . . I don’t have anything good to drink. I mean, I have a bottle of wine that’s unopened, but it’s like the cheap wine that really doesn’t do anything other than give you a headache,” I rambled on, pulse pounding. “I also have some soda and coffee, but—”

  “Water or soda would be fine,” he said with a laugh.

  I opened my mouth and my lips moved wordlessly for a few seconds. “Are you wanting to . . . wanting to come in?”

  “Yeah. I’m wanting to come in, Jillian.”

  He wanted to come in, and my mind took that down a long and dirty road. I looked up at him and I had to crane my neck, because he was standing that close. A sudden thick tension sprung alive, filling the tiny space between us. Our gazes locked once more. Neither of us moved or spoke. His lips parted on a quick, shallow inhale. My chest rose in a deep, shaky breath. What was happening here? I didn’t know, but I wasn’t completely naïve. He was looking at me in a way he hadn’t when we were younger, and that didn’t make sense.

  And I had a feeling if I let Brock in, I would begin to see things that were there, and that was so dangerous for us—for me.

  Wetting my lips, I looked away just as his gaze sharpened. “It’s really late.”

  “It’s not too late,” he said in a voice that stretched my nerve endings.

  My heart leapt into my throat. “I just . . . I don’t think it would be smart.”

  One side of his lips kicked up. “Some of the best things start off as not being very smart. Like when I tried to rob your father.”

  A surprised laugh burst out of me. “That wasn’t smart, and you’re lucky that worked out in your favor.”

  “So true.” His head lowered, and I tensed, thinking that he just might be getting ready to do something really not smart.

  He pressed a kiss to my forehead.

  So not something a boss should do.

  But I didn’t really care about that as I stood still before him.

  His warm breath danced over my cheek and then it stirred the wisps of hair around my temple. “But you’re right.”

  Relief and disappointment battled inside me as I found myself nodding jerkily. I let myself in, not daring to look at him as I closed the door behind me and locked it. Only then, as I rested my forehead against the door, did I realize his jacket was still draped over my shoulders.

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  Somewhere behind me, Rhage meowed pitifully.

  I didn’t move, because a part of me was still out in the hall, standing there, seriously considering letting Brock in. And that part of me was an incredibly stupid part, because I was desperate to know what would’ve happened if I had let him in.

  * * *

  My stomach felt jittery and nervous as I walked into my office Thursday morning and sat behind my desk.

  I didn’t know how Brock was going to behave today after asking to come into my apartment. I’d had a hell of a time trying to fall asleep last night, because my mind wouldn’t shut down.

  There was a good chance that I’d read something that hadn’t been there when he asked to come in. That wasn’t unlikely. I’d been a pro at doing that in the past. Maybe he just wanted something to drink and wanted to hang out like normal friends do, and I’d made it weird.

  I always made things weird.

  But that hadn’t been a normal hug.

  And he also hadn’t acted like a friend. Not when he’d kissed my cheek and then my forehead. Friends didn’t kiss each other on the face. I mean, I saw that happen a lot on TV shows, but never in real life, thank God, because hello, personal space. He’d also agreed coming in wouldn’t have been wise.

  Last night, I’d turned this stuff over and over in my head until I got so annoyed that I picked up my Kindle and forced myself to get lost in a historical romance about the illegitimate son of a duke who had become a pirate.

  Now I was back to being anxious and worked up, probably over nothing, as I stared at an email that had come in overnight, containing a list of employees who were due for an evaluation. Several minutes passed and I had no idea what the hell I’d been reading, so I had to go back and start over, and then I realized HR was asking for Brock’s and my input.

  “‘Morning.”

  My head jerked up, and I saw Brock striding into my office. I tensed. First thing I noticed was that he was wearing black nylon pants and an old Lima shirt from one of his matches, which was so different from how he’d been dressing since I started. Second thing was the white paper cup he carried. Starbucks.

  “Good morning,” I mumbled.

  Brock grinned as he placed the cup on my desk. “Pumpkin spice. Still steaming.”

  I glanced from the cup to him. “For me?”

  “Do I look like a white girl in America? No. The pumpkin spice isn’t for me.”

  Slowly, I wrapped my fingers around the warm cup. “Thank you.”

  Nodding, he started to turn. “I’m going to be on the second floor with the classes. Once our guests arrive, come get me.”

  “Okay.”

  I watched him walk out and then looked down at my yummy pumpkin spice latte. Do I look like a white girl in America? A grin cracked my lips and then I laughed.

  The two potential endorsers showed up not too long after he left.
They were impressed with what we had and the space available for growth. Both Brock and I had suspected we’d be hearing from them soon. We hadn’t discussed anything with my father yet. I figured it was a conversation to have over Thanksgiving, when I was face to face in a couple of weeks.

  On Friday, Brock brought me another latte along with two slices of pumpkin bread before, once again, disappearing and spending most of his day on the second floor.

  That Sunday, I’d gone to the nearby Target in search of a bookcase. I’d been immediately drawn to the really cool ladder ones, but you couldn’t really stack books rows-deep on them. I ended buying two of the standard tried and true ones and spent an ungodly amount of time getting them out of my car and up the three flights of stairs.

  This is when having a man around would come in handy.

  But I managed all on my own. I even unpacked the pieces, but I didn’t put them together. I ended up realizing there was a Walking Dead marathon on, and since I didn’t have a TV in my guest room, I’d plopped my butt down on the couch with Chinese take-out and didn’t move for most of the night.

  Monday morning, Brock was late getting into work. There were no lattes or slices of delicious bread. Admittedly, I’d been disappointed . . . up until he disappeared around eleven-thirty and reappeared with a carryout bag from Outback.

  “You might’ve packed lunch,” he said as he walked into my office, carrying the wonderful-smelling brown bag. “But if I remember correctly, you could never turn down cheese fries.”

  “Never,” I breathed, my stomach grumbling. I’d brought one of those not so bad Lean Cuisine dinners, so there was no way in hell I was turning down cheese fries.

  He sat in front of my desk and pulled out the white cartons, then plopped down a little container on a napkin. “Sour cream.”

  My brows flew up. “Your memory is rather impressive.”

  Brock chuckled as he pulled out a salad—a damn salad. “How could I forget you having an epic breakdown every time you ordered takeout from there, but they forgot to give you sour cream?”

  The corner of my lips twitched. Nothing sent me into the pit of despair and rage quicker than not having the correct dipping sauces on hand.

  I had just happily popped open the container when I saw Paul walking by the office. He appeared to be heading to Brock’s, but stopped and then looked into mine. Seeing where Brock was, he shook his head, and I couldn’t tell, but I was damn sure he’d rolled his eyes.

  What in the hell was this dude’s problem?

  Brock frowned as he looked over his shoulder, but Paul had already disappeared. He faced me. “What’s that look on your face about?”

  “Nothing,” I mumbled, shoving several cheesy fries into my mouth.

  After lunch, my cell started vibrating on the desk. A quick glance and I saw it was Grady. My finger hovered over it as I debated whether or not I wanted to answer it, which was such a jerk move.

  Feeling guilty, I answered before it went to voicemail. “Hello?”

  “Hey, sorry to bother you at work,” Grady said.

  “It’s okay.” I glanced at my open door. “I have a few moments. What’s going on?”

  “I hate to do this, but I’m calling to reschedule our date for this weekend,” he said, sounding genuine. “I just heard from my parents. With my grandfather being ill, they need me to help out.”

  “Oh.” I fiddled with my pen. “I hope it’s not too serious.”

  “He’s just getting way up there in age and doesn’t know when to slow down.” Grady laughed. “Things are kind of crazy over the next couple of weeks with mid-terms and then finals, but when things calm down, I really want to do that dinner with you.”

  “I understand.” Flipping the pen, it shot from my fingers and rolled across the desk, dropping off the other side. I sighed.

  “Are you sure? I feel like a jerk—”

  “It’s totally okay. I had to reschedule on you, so please don’t stress about it.” I rose and walked around my desk, grabbing the pen. “I’d love to grab something to eat when . . . when things calm down.”

  “I’m holding you to that.”

  I raised my brows, unsure if he actually planned on following through on that. I mean, it seemed kind of weak. He was going to be that busy from now until some undetermined time?

  “Okay,” I said as I plopped down in my seat. “Talk to you then.”

  “Bye, Jillian.”

  Hanging up the phone, I didn’t know what to make of the call. Truthfully, I wasn’t exactly disappointed or relieved. I was sort of apathetic about it, but I didn’t expect him to call again. I guess after turning my head when he tried to kiss me and canceling on the original dinner date, he was looking for a way out. Couldn’t really blame him.

  Tuesday saw the return of the pumpkin spice latte. On Wednesday and Thursday, those lattes were once again reunited in my belly with pumpkin spice bread and an amazing slice of pound cake.

  On Friday, Brock took me out to lunch, to this new sushi place in town. Brock asked about my upcoming weekend, and he’d told me he had some work to do at his place. We didn’t talk about work or our past. I told him about the bookcases I’d bought but hadn’t put together yet. He offered to assemble them for me, but I didn’t take the offer too seriously.

  On the way back to the Academy, we stopped at a flower nursery. I stayed in the car while he darted across the gravel driveway, entering one of the tented buildings, since he said it wouldn’t take that long.

  About five minutes passed before he returned, carrying two bushy flowers, one with burnt orange blossoms and another that was deep violet. He placed them on the floor of the backseat.

  “Mums?” I asked when he climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “Yeah. What about them?”

  “Why did you pick up two mums?”

  “Why not?” A sheepish grin crossed his face. “I like them.”

  Brock was absolutely the last person I’d ever expect who would like mums, or any flower to be honest, but there were two of them sitting behind me, proving me wrong.

  Proving there was something new about Brock I never learned. Something almost ridiculous . . . and so damn cute.

  He glanced over at me as he backed out of the parking lot. “Almost had it.”

  Looking up at him in confusion, I asked, “Almost had what?”

  “A smile,” he said, watching me for a few seconds and then he eased the Porsche down the gravely road. “Almost got a smile out of you.”

  “Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your heart or burn down your house, you can never tell.”

  —Joan Crawford

  Chapter 15

  A week turned into two, and Halloween came and went as November was ushered in. The air grew chillier with each passing day, and the weatherman on the local news warned this would a record-breaking winter, colder than the last several years, with feet of snow. Feet. Not inches.

  I still hadn’t put the bookcases together.

  I didn’t hear from Grady except for the occasional text from him checking in, which I always responded to. He didn’t bring up dinner and my earlier suspicions were confirmed.

  Thinking about Grady, I wished that I . . . that I was upset, because at least then I’d have known that I actually felt something for someone that was more than a passing interest. I guessed it wasn’t to be, because I wasn’t spending time with wishful thinking, hoping he’d make good on the promise of dinner.

  However, I was spending a decent amount of time with Brock and things . . . things were really okay. We worked well together, in and out of meetings. There’d been no more dinner meetings or random appearances at my apartment, but every day he either showed with coffee, lunch, or dessert, and sometimes all three things in one day.

  I began to wonder if he was trying to fatten me up.

  Not that he needed to try. I did that all on my own.

  But it was sweet of him, and I guessed maybe it was his way of making up fo
r what had happened in our past or him trying to make up for lost time, because he used to do things like this years ago. Not as often, but he’d come to my parents’ house when I got home from school, carrying a slice of pie or cake from the bakery down the street from the Lima Academy. Instead of delivering coffee to the office, he’d bring smoothies and milkshakes to my bedroom.

  Things were kind of like before, but not.

  Brock flirted like he used to, which meant he had this amazing ability to turn almost every comment into something that dripped sex. And it might’ve totally been my interpretation, because seriously, I currently existed in a several years long dry spell, so there were moments when I could turn almost everything into a sexual thing. Like seriously. I could be watching Walking Dead and suddenly be fixating on Daryl’s biceps or Rick’s baby blue eyes a little too long.

  But the difference was I resisted letting myself get wrapped up in the way I thought I’d catch him looking at me. I didn’t fixate on how it seemed like his hand brushed mine whenever we walked to the conference room together. I refused to pay attention to how his fingers grazed mine and lingered when he’d hand me my coffee or whatever treat he’d brought me. Those moments were often.

  What I hated about those moments was the fact that the simplest touch from him could elicit a heady and nearly overwhelming reaction from me. My body instantly took notice and flushed. An achy heaviness would fill my breasts and, and I would be left wanting . . . wanting so much, because something inside me was opening, an awakening, rising and searching.

  Needless to say, the old trusty “magic wand” was getting a workout.

  Several times over the course of the last couple of weeks, I’d find that whatever sleep I could get was fitful, either full of nightmares or I was too restless to sleep at all. I would think of the way a certain set of arms had felt around me, how strong they were and how hard the chest was under my cheek, and those thoughts would give way to fantasies.

  Fantasies I tried to keep faceless. Fantasies where I imagined my fingers or the toy were replaced by a real hand or mouth. Fantasies where I pictured myself against a wall, flat on my back, on my belly in the bed, or bent over slightly, grasping the counter . . . or a polished, cherry-wood desk.