“Fine. So Brock came over and there was no sex. Did you guys quilt a blanket? Watch Beaches? Did you two even cuddle, because I think he’s the type that likes to cuddle.”
“Oh my God,” I moaned, close to hanging up on her. “You need to focus.”
“I am focused.”
“We just talked—talked about things, and he . . . he seems to be interested in me like more than just friends, and he’s not at all worried about us working together”
“Well, why would he be worried about you two working together? Not like the Limas have ever separated work and family before,” she replied dryly. “Brock has been asking about you for six years, honey.”
“Yeah, and for most of that time he was with someone, so that’s not an indication of anything.”
“If you say so.”
I sighed. “Mom.”
“If you think that means nothing then I’m sure there are things I don’t think he’s talked to you about.”
“Like what?” I demanded as unease brewed.
“That’s not my place to go into, hon.”
“Oh!” I threw an arm up. “It’s not your place to tell me his business, but you told him mine?”
“Not the same thing,” she repeated.
“Whatever.”
“So are you two finally getting together?” she asked.
Taking a deep breath, I counted to ten before I responded. “No, Mom. We’re not.”
“I’m confused.”
I tipped my head back and groaned, “Why?”
“You love him.”
I sucked in a sharp breath. “I was in love with him, Mom, but that was a long time ago. I’m not that girl anymore.”
“You may be a woman now, but that doesn’t mean how you feel about someone has changed.”
My gaze flipped to the ceiling.
“And this Grady fellow you went out with, he was a good man, I’m guessing? Attractive. Smart. Interested in you? But you felt nothing for him and it was going nowhere?”
“Yeah.” I frowned, thinking I knew where this was heading, and this conversation was so not turning out the way I expected it to.
“You sure you still aren’t in love with Brock? And if it’s not love anymore, you’re not interested? You don’t think about him?” Mom paused. “I want an honest answer.”
Walking away from the counter, I shuffled out to the living room. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“That’s not honest.” When I didn’t speak, she said, “Jillian, you’ve been through a lot. I know this, and you’ve been hurt. If I could take that hurt from you, I would.”
“I know.” I walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. I stared at the woods behind the apartment complex.
“And that hurt—the kind Brock laid down on you and the kind you physically suffered—obviously would have you hesitating,” she said as I watched the bare branches sway in the wind. “I don’t blame you for that. No one would, but it shouldn’t stop you from taking risks.”
Chewing on my bottom lip, I said nothing because going there with Brock was a huge risk.
“Living is all about taking risks, Jillian. Isn’t that what you’re trying to do? To start living again?”
Part of me wished I’d never told her that when I’d left home for good, because she had a point, damn it.
“Do you still like him?” she asked again.
“I . . . I don’t know,” I whispered a bit lamely.
Mom laughed quietly. “Honey, I think you know how you feel.”
I thought I did too, because truth was, no matter what, even when I hated him and I hated everything we’d ever shared, I still liked him. I never stopped liking him.
“Are you driving up with him for Thanksgiving?” she asked.
“I don’t know, Mom.”
Her laugh brought a wry smile to my face. “I’ll see both of you soon, and I have a feeling at the exact same moment too.”
Hanging up the phone after I told her my plans for the day, which involved finally putting together bookcases, I let the curtain fall back in place. Mom made it all sound so simple, but it wasn’t.
But she was right.
Living meant taking risks.
* * *
Just after three in the afternoon, when I was about to finally put the bookcases together, there was a knock on my apartment door.
I stepped out into the hall, my stomach flip-flopping around. I wasn’t expecting anyone, but intuition sprung alive. Hurrying to the door, I didn’t bother with the useless peephole. I cracked open the door.
“Brock,” I whispered.
“Hey,” he replied with a grin.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, glancing around like the outside hallway held all the answers.
“Visiting you.”
My brows lifted.
“I’m actually here to do my good deed for the day.”
Having no idea what he was talking about, I stepped aside. “And what would that good deed be?”
Brock walked into my apartment, and as he passed me, he swooped down and kissed me before I could even process what he was doing. It was sweet and all too brief, but still left me standing there stunned.
“Kissing me was your good deed?” I finally asked, closing the door.
He looked over his shoulder at me. “I kind of like the way you think, but no. I’m here to put together your bookcases, because I’m sure you still haven’t done that since you mentioned buying them.”
“I haven’t,” I admitted. “You remembered that?”