The next morning, Brock yawned over his scrambled eggs and toast, then yawned again as he took a long draw of coffee, and one last time as he stabbed his sausage with a fork.
“Long night?” Bentley said with a grin. “Dreaming about all the possibilities that didn’t actually happen? Dancing like little erotic ballerinas in your head? Ones who rhyme with shame? Lame? Game?”
Brock let out a grunt and flipped off his brother just as Brant helped Jane to the table. Brock nearly jumped to his feet, knocking his chair backward against the floor. “You’re up?”
Jane thanked Brant by kissing him on the cheek, and sat in the chair across from Brock. The rutting bastard, thought Brock. “Yes, sorry I slept in.”
Damn, if that’s what sleeping in looks like, sign me up. From her bright chocolate eyes to the pink spreading across her cheekbones, she looked stunning.
He gripped his fork so damn hard he was surprised it didn’t bend in half.
“Pity, it’s such nice silverware, too. Some might say an antique.” Bentley grinned at Brock’s hand while Jane gave them both a confused look.
“You clearly slept well, my beautiful, sexy, sweet—” Bentley stopped talking the minute Brock slid a knife toward him and glared. “Jane?”
“It’s too early for violence,” Brant muttered.
“Um, I slept okay.” Jane stared down at her empty plate, a smile curving her lips like she was keeping a secret.
Brock found himself grinning at her, like he had a right to, like he’d spent the night in her arms, when really he’d taken a cold shower and slept with half a bottle of whiskey. Thus the hangover currently pounding on both sides of his head.
“Glad to hear it,” Bentley sighed. “I was worried you’d be all hot and bothered.” He paused, sharing a look with Brock. “You know, because of all the blankets I’m sure this jackass piled on top of you before abandoning you.”
“Oh, Brock didn’t abandon me.” Jane shrugged. “We shared a midnight drink last night.”
“No,” Brant said in a dry tone. “That’s a shock. What did he do? Pound down your door and demand you pour whiskey into his cup because he lacks the intelligence to do it himself?”
Brock groaned. “I don’t know why I put up with either of you.”
“Family sticks together,” Bentley pointed out. “Just ask Grandfather.”
The room fell silent and tense.
“Jane.” Suddenly desperate to spend more time with her away from his brothers—even though he knew nothing could come of it—he stood. “Why don’t you eat a few more bites and I’ll start the cleaning.”
Bentley choked on his coffee while Brant hid a laugh behind his hand.
“What?” Brock shrugged. “I’m going to help her. What are you jackasses going to do? Take a selfie and post it on Instagram?”
Bennett removed his hand from his mouth. “Did you just say selfie?”
“Does he even know what Instagram is?” Bentley added. “Jane, do me a solid; check the window and see if one of the pigs is flying.”
Brock clenched his teeth. “I know about Instagram. I just choose not to take pictures of myself with the world’s longest selfie stick!”
“Known as my penis.” Bentley grinned then raised his hand for a high five. Brant hit it and gave Brock an apologetic look while Jane burst out laughing.
Great; he was back to being Boring Brock, getting offended and uncomfortable while his brothers laughed at his expense.
“Why don’t you start with the game room?” Jane said, completely ignoring his brothers. “And I’ll have one of the guys help me up.”
The hell they would.
Brock sat. “I’ll wait.”
“’Course he will.” Brant sighed. “Have you even fed the animals yet today?”
Brock gave them a blank stare.
“Fine.” Bentley stood. “We’ll do it. We’ll start with the pigs. But if you hear screaming you better come running. I’ve heard they eat humans, and I can’t promise I won’t accidentally push Brant into the mud for a photo op.”
“It may be worth all the comments.” Brant nodded thoughtfully. “Think of all the sex I would get. I’d be a hero.”
“Yes.” Bentley blinked in confusion. “A hero for surviving a pig attack. God, I can see the headlines now! Millionaire falls into pigpen, gets up, and walks right out! MIRACLE!”
Brant slapped him on the back of the head as they both made their way slowly out of the kitchen and out of the house. The screen door slammed behind them.
Jane was still staring after them when Brock piled food high onto her plate. “Eat.”
“Am I eating for five people?”
He felt himself tense. “No, I just… You’re small, you need…” Why was he so bad with the words? Why? “Fat.”
“I need fat,” she replied.
He winced. “Something like that.”
“Okay.” She pressed her lips together as though she was trying to suppress a smile. “Then fat it is.” Poking her fork into a grease-laden sausage, she devoured half her plate before finally announcing she was done and that he might need his brothers’ help getting her upstairs.
“I’m sure I can handle it.”
Jane made a face. “Are you sure? Because I just ate enough for three people. I really didn’t mean to take you up on the whole fat-eating but the food was incredible!” Jane seemed giddy; her face lit up like she’d just been taken to the most expensive restaurant in the world. “It’s just, nobody ever cooks for me. The last person to make me breakfast was my—”
As if he’d just been sucker-punched, Brock’s breath stilled. “Your boyfriend?”
After a pause where he prayed to God he was wrong, she answered.
“Mother.” Jane licked her lips, a nervous habit he was coming to despise since it reminded him of kissing her. “She was big into waffles every Monday morning, and during the week she made sausage and pancakes. French toast was always my favorite.” She straightened her shoulders and then wiped underneath her eyes. “Her name was Rosie. She died…from cancer. It was a long time ago but a girl always wants her mother, you know?”
Of course he knew.
He knew because a boy needed his father.
He thought that might be why he’d latched onto his grandfather so completely.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Like I said, it was a long time ago. I just…” Her sadness shifted to a smile. “I have a soft spot for waffles.”
Brock stored that information for later.
Damn it, he’d cook for her every day if he got that reaction. Maybe he didn’t need to be a poet or a wordsmith around Jane; maybe relating to Jane, getting her to like him, had more to do with action.
Action he could do.
After all, his brothers were the talkers.
He’d always been the doer.
His thoughts jumbled as he realized he was no longer flirting with the idea of pursuing her, but actively conjuring up a way to seduce her.