“I’m walking you up,” he announced, turning off the car. He twisted toward me. “You think you can manage those stairs?”
Offended, I swung my head around and nearly toppled over. “I can walk.”
Even in the dark interior I could see the amusement etched into his face. “Are you seriously going to sit there and act like you’re not drunk?”
“I am a . . . little tipsy.”
“I never would’ve guessed that,” he replied dryly.
“It’s your fault,” I grumbled, opening the door. I started to get out and then choked myself with the seatbelt. “Damn it.”
Brock laughed. “I’m not denying that.”
It took me a couple of moments to get out of the car. “But I can fully walk up those stairs.” I pointed at them just in case he had no idea what I was talking about. “I don’t need your help.”
Grinning, he slowly approached me. “Okay. You don’t need my help, but how about I offer it to you anyway?”
I stared up at him, eyes squinty. “When did you become such a gentleman?”
“I’m not a gentleman.” He took hold of my hand. “Trust me.”
“I don’t know about that.” I let him guide me across the parking lot. “Wait. You know what would be great? Ice cream.” Slipping my hand free, I wheeled around and started heading back to his fancy car. “We could go get ice cream.”
“Come back here,” he said, laughing. Circling an arm around my waist, he turned me back around. “Let’s wait on the ice cream. See if we want to eat that in a little bit.”
“Why?”
“Might make your stomach a bit upset after drinking the whiskey.”
“Hmmm. That sounds legit.” I stopped talking because I found we were in front of the steps and I needed to concentrate. They proved more difficult than anticipated.
At my door, I slipped my purse off my shoulder and found my keys where the hall swayed a bit. I pulled them out and promptly dropped them.
Brock swiped them off the floor, moving ninja-fast. “I got it.”
“Yes.” I watched him unlock my front door. “Yes. You do.”
Shaking his head, he opened the door. “Get in.”
I stumbled in, throwing out my hand and hitting the switch on the wall. Soft buttery light flooded the living room. My gaze immediately landed on Rhage. He was sitting on the coffee table and his little yellow cat eyes were full of judgment.
“Stop staring at me,” I muttered, trudging forward. Then I stopped, remembering that Brock was there. I turned. He was still standing in the doorway. “You coming in?”
“You want me to?” he asked.
“Yes.” Then I nodded, just in case he was confused.
Watching me with that grin on his face, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Then he walked over to the island and placed my keys on it. “You got water in the fridge?”
“I got water in the faucets, too.” I toed off my heels and kicked them against the wall. Sighing, I wiggled my toes.
Brock snorted as he walked to the fridge. “You got any pain relievers?”
“Why? You got a headache?” Feeling warm, too warm, I walked toward the window, about to open it when I realized that would require a lot of effort at the moment. I looked down at myself and remembered that I had a tank top on under the sweater-blouse.
Listening to cabinet doors open and close, I reached down and peeled the sweater up over my head, letting it drop on the floor. Cooler air washed over my arms. Feeling a million times better, I turned around.
Brock found the stash of pills in the cabinet near the fridge and was doling out aspirins into his palm. With the bottle of water in his other hand, he turned around and went rigid.
I started to say something, but forgot whatever it was as his gaze swept over my face and then dropped, traveling over the thin straps of my top. The tank was tight, like a second skin, and it was low cut, showing off the swells of my breasts. I knew this, because that was where he was looking.
Pleasant warmth replaced the almost suffocating heat from a few seconds ago, but I didn’t want to shed that feeling. Not when he was walking toward me, his eyes darker now, like a heated night sky.
Swallowing, I tipped my head back as he stopped in front of me. I don’t know why I said what I said next. It just came out of my mouth. “Grady never took me out to dinner.”
One brow rose.
“He had to reschedule, but he’s been busy with his grandparents’ farm and midterms and finals and . . .” I shrugged, and his gaze dropped again. “I don’t think I care.”
“Of course you don’t. Told you, you deserve better than him. Take these and drink the water,” he ordered. “You’ll be grateful that you did when you wake up.”
Knowing he had experience in these things, I did as I was told while he walked past me and picked up the remote. Rhage hopped down and pranced over to where Brock stood, winding his body around his ankles.
Traitorous asshole cat.
Brock turned on the TV and started flipping through the channels, settling on what appeared to be a Jason Statham movie where Jason Statham was playing . . . Jason Statham.
Placing the remote on the end table, Brock walked over and turned off the light, and then he sat down—no, he laid down on his side. Apparently I’d missed the moment he’d taken off his shoes and socks. He propped his head on his fist and looked over at me. “Come here.”
I didn’t move for a second. In the back of my mind there was a small voice that was starting to pick up in volume that was warning me not to go to him—to ask him to leave and then go face-plant the bed, but I told that voice to shut the hell up, and I went to him.