Brock paced back and forth in the barn, keeping a wary eye on the cock, who was circling him and flapping his wings.
Finally, he dialed his grandfather’s number.
“Brock?” Grandfather answered on the fourth ring. “How’s my favorite grandson?”
“Brant was your favorite last time I checked. Don’t tell me you’re switching sides now?”
Grandfather coughed loudly then sniffed. “Well, I think it best to always keep you guys guessing. I find it keeps the twins in line.”
Brock snorted.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“So, what can I do you for? I have a meeting in a few minutes, and before you start asking what it’s about, it’s just to tie up minor details for the ball. I’ve ordered your tux. You’ll be in all black, of course. A matching set, you and I.”
“And the twins?” Brock tried to keep the irritation out of his voice.
“They can wear whatever they want as long as they aren’t naked.”
And there it was. Brock, of course, needed to match his grandfather because he was a carbon copy. But the twins? They could do whatever the hell they wanted! Granted, a part of him knew his wasn’t a fair assessment; his grandfather just didn’t want to deal with the twins.
“Is something wrong? You’re more quiet than usual,” Grandfather asked with another sniff.
Brock sighed. “Nothing, I just…I was thinking. The auction is a great idea, for charity, but you were kidding about me actually marrying one of those women…right? I mean I know that the press took that idea and ran with it but…” Please laugh, please laugh.
Grandfather laughed.
Brock exhaled loudly.
“I thought you understood how this was going to work,” Grandfather said quickly.
The sense of dread was back. “I assumed from the notes last week that the auction is going to take place halfway through the dinner at the ball. You’ll pick from one of the five women who bids the most. I go out on a date with them, take pictures, and…” He gulped. “We get good publicity. The shareholders get to see us as a united front, the press goes wild, and everyone wins. I didn’t think, I mean…marriage…”
“Of course you won’t have to marry right away! But you never know. You may fall for one of the girls. The media is having a field day about where you’ve gotten off to, so everything is working according to plan.” Grandfather lowered his voice. “Brock, I’m not trying to upset you, but things could get bad…”
Brock gulped and closed his eyes. “How bad?”
“If I die—”
Brock inhaled sharply. “Are you sick?”
“Not now.” Grandfather sighed heavily. “But if I die and you and your brothers aren’t cemented within the company, the shareholders will push you out. Right now the only thing keeping them satisfied is the publicity the auction is bringing in and the idea that Wellington Incorporated and Titus Enterprises could one day merge.”
Brock wasn’t so sure how he felt about any potential merger with a company that up until now had always been a complete pain in the ass. Grandfather kept on talking. “The auction is a show of good will. Besides, you aren’t seeing anyone. You have to marry someone eventually.”
Brock rolled his eyes. “I’m a person. With feelings. I want to marry a person I have actual feelings for.”
Grandfather gasped. “I’ve never heard you admit to such a thing. What is this really about?”
Brock stared back at the house then kicked at the dirt. “A kiss.”
With a curse, his grandfather spoke clearly into the phone. “Well, best push that kiss and any others out of your head. A kiss is a kiss, and what you do with your time until the ball is fine, as long as it doesn’t affect our company’s image. This is front-page news. The last thing we need is for the media to catch wind that you’re kissing the maid. That type of news is not what the shareholders need to see. Do you understand?”
History was repeating itself.
The way it tended to do.
The “no” was on the tip of his tongue, ready to slide forward, but at the last minute Brock retracted and uttered the dreaded, “Yes sir.”
Only this time. It was a total lie.
He understood, all right. He understood that no matter what he said, he wouldn’t win, and the fear of saying no still made him want to puke, so he said yes.
But he didn’t mean it.
“Good boy. You always were the serious one, the one who understood how important our reputation is to the company. My father started this company with his bare hands! I can’t”—his breath hitched—“I can’t imagine it going into anyone else’s hands but yours. I know I’m hard on you, but it’s because I see so much of myself in you.”
“Right.” The more his grandfather talked, the sicker he felt. It was such a backhanded compliment, because all he’d ever wanted was his grandfather’s happiness. It had almost always been at the expense of his, but he knew in his heart that his grandfather only wanted the best for him. The problem was, they had very different definitions of “best.” “I need to go.”
“Me too. See you in two weeks!”
Brock stared at his phone.
Slid it into his pocket.
Eyed the cock, and almost asked the damn bird to just end him.
Buttercup nuzzled Brock’s neck as if she understood exactly what pained him.
If his grandfather ever found out what Brock had planned for the next few weeks, he’d shoot him.
But with each step he took toward the house, he realized fully that he was walking toward something he wanted. Not something his grandfather wanted for him.
And it felt good.
Empowering.
Even if he still hadn’t been able to utter “no” to his own Grandfather—his heart still screamed “yes” to Jane.
And for now, it had to be enough.
* * *
When Brock stepped into the kitchen, all heads turned toward him.
Bentley was sticking his finger into a large bowl of frosting while Brant held a cookie over his head.
Jane stood on her toes, trying to grab the cookie from his brother’s hand.
And somehow, the ass had found its way inside and was standing by the kitchen table watching.
“Give her the cookie, Brant.”
“No.” Brant held it higher. “I’m saving her the calories!”
She smacked him on the arm. “It’s just one more sugar cookie!”
“You heard her, man.” Bentley grinned. “Hand it over or I’m not baking anymore.”
Brock was sure he’d heard wrong. He knew that his brother could cook but baking was a whole different beast. “You baked?”
Bentley nodded. “It’s not rocket science.”
“You baked…cookies?”
“He makes a mean carrot cake, too,” Brant added. “Don’t be too proud of him; he learned to cook because he found out the cougars liked it when a man knew his way around the kitchen. Think of it as his foreplay.”
“You’re a conniving bastard. You know that, right?” Brock nodded toward Bentley, who seemed completely unfazed, like it was normal to take up a hobby so you could have more sex.
Brant lowered the cookie to Jane’s height and dangled it in front of her face. “If I give you this, what will you do for me?”
“Well, I don’t know about Jane, but if you give her the cookie I won’t strangle you. So there’s that,” Brock said in an irritated voice.
“He’s got at least twenty pounds on you, Brant. I’d give over the goods.”
Jane grinned in triumph as Brant shoved the large cookie into her mouth, patted her head, and glared at Bentley. “Make more.”
“Don’t pressure him!” Jane said, mouth full of food. “We don’t want them burning. I’ve had four. I could eat them until I get sick. That’s how good they are.”
Suddenly jealous, Brock frowned hard at his brother. What the hell kind of game was he playing at? Did he know that food was Jane’s weakness? He sure as hell did now with all that moaning she was doing every time she took a bite of the damn cookie.
The way she moaned, the way she enjoyed even the simplest of life’s pleasures, had him realizing that she wasn’t like most women in his social circle—women his Grandfather would choose. Those types of women ate salad with no dressing. And Brock had a sneaking suspicion that if he offered one of them a cookie they’d take it as an insult, whereas Jane would ask for more.
A dab of chocolate was on the corner of her mouth. Brock tried not to stare, but he couldn’t help it. She looked more delicious than the cookie she was devouring. Without thinking he reached over and swiped the chocolate with his thumb and proceeded to lick the chocolate from his finger.
Jane’s mouth dropped open.
He had no self-control where she was concerned and he knew that if he kept tasting her—he’d be completely lost.
He didn’t even realize he had moaned until Bentley slapped him on the back. “Problem?”
“You’re…” Brock narrowed his eyes as Jane let out another breathy sigh and finished her cookie. “I’m suddenly really grateful for your cookies.”
“Was that a compliment?”
Brock clenched his teeth. “Don’t get used to it.”
Bentley snorted. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
They stared down one another until Jane’s moans subsided and she finally was able to speak again. “I need more cookies.”
“I will literally pay you five hundred dollars to bake more cookies for us.” Brant slapped cash out onto the table. “But make double because Jane is eating them faster than I can get my hands on them.”
“What about me?” Brock asked, feeling left out. “I didn’t even get any!”
“You hate sugar.” Bentley shrugged. Jane let out a loud gasp and covered her mouth.
Strike one.
“No, I just don’t like cotton candy,” Brock grumbled.
Another gasp from Jane, so clearly that was strike two.
Bentley shook his head slowly. “Maybe it’s because your childhood was cut short by the death of our parents? No doubt it caused you to grow up more than us.”
The room fell silent.
Brant looked down at his shoes, his face unreadable, while Jane locked eyes with Brock. Her expression was sad—not necessarily pitying, but close enough. God, he hated pity.
Almost as much as he hated being a yes man.
“Hey.” Jane slowly made her way over to him. “Bentley said something about horses. Do you think…” Her cheeks burned bright red. “Maybe I could get on one?”
Damn it, she was cute when she was nervous.
Cute was dangerous.
Cute made you want to care.
Cute made you want more than one fleeting night of passion where you left in the morning without saying good-bye.
And suddenly, the conversation he’d just had with his grandfather was thrust into the forefront of his mind. Hadn’t his intention been to kiss her senseless when he marched back to the house? It had been, until his brothers had decided to seduce her with baked goods.
“Here.” Bentley was suddenly at his side with a small backpack. “I have all the essentials: screw top wine, cheeses, crackers, grapes, and a few cookies I managed to hide from Brant.”
“Bastard,” Brant muttered.
Brock took the bag, wondering what Bentley as about, but as always, Bentley was the king of hiding what he was really feeling, which made it damn near impossible for Brock to know if his brother was being conniving or caring.
“Thanks.” Brock took the bag and put it over his shoulder while Jane smiled and limped toward the door, opening it for both of them.
“Careful,” Bentley said in a quiet voice. “Just”—he licked his lips—“It’s private property but you never know… If the press finds you here…with Jane, Grandfather will have a stroke. We already have enough to worry about with the auction looming over the family—the last thing you need is the media somehow catching wind.”
Tensing, Brock gave a jerky nod then followed Jane outside, passing a curious Brant on the way.
Jane was next to the barn, the rooster by her feet. It looked like the damn cock had decided he wanted to be friends rather than enemies.
“He’s not so bad.” She laughed still standing on one foot and leaning on the barn wall.
The cock flapped up toward Brock. He stumbled back. “Yeah, completely tame.”
Jane laughed again. “So, which horse is yours?”
“Buttercup.” Brock felt his chest swell with pride. “My grandfather gave her to me right before…”
Her hand touched his shoulder. “Before?”
“Before my parents died. And then after everything happened, he always tried to encourage me to ride her. Grandfather hoped it would bring me out of depression.”
“Did it?”
“I’m a firm believer that animals can sense your emotions. Take Diablo, for example. He thinks I’m going to steal his hens and he attacks. Animals have the potential to heal, as long as you remember the cardinal rule.” He grabbed a blanket and threw it over Buttercup, then reached for the saddle.
Jane took a step back, her eyes rapt with fascination as he buckled the saddle. “What’s the cardinal rule?”
Brock’s fingers stopped moving as he looked over his shoulder at Jane. “They’re still wild.”
Jane’s eyes grew wide. “Does that apply to humans as well?”
“Jane, are you accusing me of being wild?”
“Well…” She crossed her arms. “I definitely wouldn’t accuse you of being tame.”
“I don’t think anyone”—he reached for the harness—“has ever accused me of being anything but boring.”
“Really?” Jane’s eyes narrowed. “No staying out late in high school? Partying in college? Wild raves with that grandfather of yours? Orgies?”
Brock’s hand slipped at the word “orgy.” Sighing, he gently put the bit in Buttercup’s mouth. “Sorry to disappoint, but if I ran for congress, my grandfather would probably have more dirt than me. I’m clean.”
“That’s too bad,” Jane said, surprising him. “Sometimes my most favorite days that I can think back on are the ones where I was dirty.”
His heart picked up speed as her eyes lit up with amusement. “You know, mud pies, that sort of thing.”
“Sure. Because that’s where a thirty-five-year-old man’s mind goes: mud pies.”
“I figured,” she teased, lifting a shoulder in the air.
Damn it, he already felt the familiar strain of his dick against the button of his fly as she giggled and ran her hands down Buttercup’s face then brushed a kiss across the velvet of her nose.
Clearing his throat, he attached the backpack to the saddle and held out his hand. “Are you ready to ride?”
It was the wrong thing to say.
Completely.
However, she lifted her chin up, her eyes both challenging and excited. “Are you?”
He let out a groan and tugged her against him. “You know a man can only take so much.”
“Cleanliness?”
“Yeah.” He eyed her up and down. “That’s right.”
“So.” She linked her arms around his neck. “How do we ride this thing?”
Buttercup neighed.
Jane jumped back on her one good foot, nearly falling on her ass.
Brock smiled and reached for her hips and lifted. “Up you go.”
“Ahh!” Jane let out a little squeak. The minute she was in the saddle, her hands found the horn and gripped tight. “It’s high.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“Super high.”
“I know.”
“This horse is tall.”
Buttercup neighed like she knew she was getting a compliment.
“I’ll be right behind you.”
“You better be.” Jane clenched her teeth. “You know when Bentley mentioned this, I wasn’t imagining I’d be riding Goliath.”
“You have no idea how desperately I want to comment on that, but I think it might make you blush again.”
She laughed, but it was a nervous laugh, one that said he’d better hurry his ass up before she burst into tears.
He heaved himself up behind her and grabbed the reins and she automatically slid backward. A grunt erupted between his clenched teeth at the soft contact of her ass.
He was going to murder his brother.
This was a horrible idea.
Not because he wasn’t enjoying himself, but because he was enjoying himself too much, outside; where anyone could see them, and now he was paranoid. Especially after Bentley’s warning.
She moved, just slightly.
Terrible idea.
All he wanted to do was take her back to the house and kiss her—everywhere. Because her mouth, as tempting as it was, wouldn’t be enough. Already he’d tasted and wanted more. Her neck, her fingers, her thighs—he wanted his mouth everywhere.
Another slight movement had him inwardly groaning.
His body burned as she thrust back against him. It was all he could do not to take her right here on this horse. Cameras be damned.
“Comfortable?” His teeth were still clenched; he gripped the reins as if his life depended on it.
“Yes.” Her voice was wobbly, unsure.
“Shall we see how fast Buttercup can gallop?” he teased.
“S-sure.”
“Relax,” he whispered in her ear. The temptation to lick her neck was utterly ridiculous, but there it was. “We’re going to walk nice and slow.”
“I like walking.”
“Good.” He pulled on the reins and whistled. Buttercup ambled out of the barn, and past the cock who’d suddenly gone silent as the horse went by.
“Oh, oh, wow.” Jane dug her nails into his arm, which she’d had in a death grip since he’d gotten on behind her. “This is, this is—”
“Nice?”
She laughed. “Yeah, really nice.”
“Do you want to go faster?”
“Maybe…”
“Come on, live a little.”
“Where has Boring Brock disappeared to?”
“Eh, I left him back in the barn with the cock.”
Jane let her head fall back against his chest as she laughed. “The poor cock is going to commit roostercide. Poor guy will be so bored, what will he do?”
“Did you just call me boring?”
She shrugged and then glanced over her shoulder. “I’ve just noticed a certain lack of color.”
“I wear color,” he said defensively, looking down at his black T-shirt. “I just didn’t bring anything like that with me.”
“Mmm, I see.”
“All right, you’ve asked for it.”
“Oh?”
“I hate to do this, but you better hold on. Clearly I have something to prove.”
“Brock—”
“Hold tight, Jane,” he whispered in her ear, just as he dug his heels into Buttercup’s sides. The horse took off at a gallop. Thankfully, riding a horse was like riding a bike: you didn’t forget.
Jane let out a loud gasp. Earlier Brock hadn’t thought she could grip him any harder—he was wrong. He’d have nail prints in his arms for days. But she was safe with him; he wouldn’t let her fall.
Jane’s hair was blowing in his face and it smelled like raspberries. He inhaled deeply.
Trouble. He was in so much trouble.
Because for a moment, the temptation to look beyond the next two weeks was almost too much to resist. There might be a life where he was able to have Jane in his arms like this, where he wouldn’t be paranoid about his Grandfather dying over a simple word—or worried that a camera would catch him kissing a woman he actually had feelings for.
He had once loved this ranch.
And she was making him love it again, but she was part of it. The ranch without Jane would just be a house.
She made it feel like home.
Hell, he was so happy he’d even let the cock stay.
Outdoors, of course.
Eventually, he slowed Buttercup to a walk and Jane unclenched his arm.
“What do you think?”
She quickly wiped at her cheek.
He froze. “Damn it, are you crying? Did I scare you?”
“No.” She wiped her other cheek. “It’s just…” She leaned away from him and he pulled her back against his chest. Not a chance in hell she was going to get away from him. “I felt free.”
Brock’s stomach clenched.
He knew the feeling.
“Do you feel trapped?”
She nodded.
“Me too,” he admitted. She slid her hand into his.
They rode in silence down to the river that divided the pasture and the rest of the property, where they kept a few heads of cattle for beef.
“I blame myself for my parents’ death,” he said quietly.
Jane gripped his hand as he led Buttercup through the grass. The horse was still breathing heavy from the run.
“We argued. I said no to something my father asked me to do. Something stupid that wasn’t even important. And twenty-four hours later they were dead.” He stared into her big brown eyes. “I haven’t been able to say no again. And I’ve felt trapped ever since.”
“It wasn’t your fault. You were how old? Twelve?”
“I said no.” He squeezed her hand tighter. “I hate that word.”
She blinked down at their joined hands and then back up at him. “Do you still feel trapped?”
“Not right now,” he whispered. “Not with you.”
Brock slid off Buttercup first, and reached up for Jane. She grabbed his arms and slowly slid down his body.
Their mouths almost touched.
His body burned for her in a way he’d never experienced before. It was a completely foreign feeling, wanting her not just in his bed, not just in the present, but in the future.
She cleared her throat and stepped back, her smile nervous, pink lips trembling. “If Bentley packs as good as he cooks we should have some good snacks.”
He knew that look, the look she was giving him. After all, he wore it often. It said not to prod, not to ask questions, ignore the elephant in the room even though it’s sobbing in the corner.
So he obliged her, though it killed him to do so. But selfishly he knew the minute he started digging more into her life, she’d do the same to him. And part of him preferred to keep the future, the auction, all of it locked away, or at least temporarily forgotten.
Where he didn’t have to deal with it.
“I’ll grab the bag.” His voice cracked and he watched as she quickly turned around and started petting Buttercup again.
The moment floated away, and he kicked himself mentally for allowing it to go. After all, moments with her were precious, they were short, and the sand was very quickly sifting through the hourglass.