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.”