Secret Triplets(14)

 

“It was just an experience I had a few years ago. Someone who let me down.”

 

Brock’s face went serious. He nodded.

 

“Sorry.”

 

I shook my head.

 

“No. It’s fine. It’s the past now. It’s fine.”

 

Brock nodded as his face got even more serious.

 

“Oh, Alexa…”

 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” I asked as he neared my face, peering at it intently.

 

“Ah, nothing except”—he tapped his blue-tipped finger to my cheek—“this.”

 

Stumbling backward, I scolded him. “Brock! Now there’s blue on my face, isn’t there?”

 

He shrugged and then flicked the same finger across my other cheek.

 

“Maybe.”

 

I snatched the orange tube off the floor, opened it, and squirted some into my palm.

 

“Okay, now you’re totally getting it!”

 

Stepping back, Brock dove for the purple and squirted some into both palms.

 

“Oh really?” he asked, lifting his purple-palmed hands.

 

I backed up, shaking my head.

 

“Okay, maybe we should call a truce?”

 

But Brock was advancing nonetheless, his purple-coated palms extended.

 

“No. I think you just laid down a challenge.”

 

I backed away into the kitchen and then to the front door.

 

“No, Brock. Please—”

 

But that smile of his was merciless, and as I ripped open the door with my clean hand and fled into the still-falling snow outside, he raced after me.

 

The chase didn’t last long, just long enough for me to trip over a snowbank, fall to the snowy ground, and for Brock to cover my shivering form with purple handprints while I slapped back my own orange revenge.

 

Our hands were nearly paintless and our bodies were covered with orange and purple handprints by the time we stopped and collapsed back into the snow, utterly spent.

 

After a few seconds of this freezing freedom, I asked Brock, “But why?”

 

To which he rose and, offering me a hand, declared, “I’m not sorry.”

 

I accepted the hand and rose with a glare.

 

He held my gaze, his smile challenging my glare. We stood there for a minute while I tried not to be infected by those upturned lips and those merry eyes. But it was no use; soon my smile was as broad as Brock’s.

 

“Well I’m not going to bed like this,” I declared as we made our way back to the cabin.

 

“Oh, yeah, of course. There’s a shower and everything,” Brock said in that strange tone again.

 

As I walked beside him, it looked like his cheeks were rosy. It was probably from the cold, but I hadn’t noticed them before when we’d been paint fighting, or even when we’d lain out in the snow. Weird.

 

Once we got inside, Brock strode directly to the door under the loft.

 

“There’s the bathroom and shower,” he said in a robotic voice, avoiding my gaze.

 

“Okay…” I said, unsure what to say.

 

I had planned on taking a shower later, but this seemed like my cue to get it over with now for whatever reason.

 

So in I went, not saying anything or even looking at Brock again. Clearly, that was what he wanted.

 

Just as I had started getting comfortable with him, he had to go and act weird.

 

As I looked in the mirror, I caught my rosy, excited face returning to normal. Brock’s sudden coldness was good, actually. With all these activities, I had been getting off track from what I was here for: finding evidence of Brock’s criminal activities. And although I had done it, I still needed to get out of there and hand over what I’d found to Russell Snow. There was no point to getting all warm and fuzzy about my target, which was what Brock Anderson was—all that Brock Anderson was.

 

The shower, with its warm water, was a nice relief from the cold outside. Gratefully, I let the hot droplets roll down my skin, closing my eyes and savoring the feeling. Just as I was fully relaxed and leaning into the corner of the shower, letting the water envelop me, however, my phone rang.

 

Although it was in my coat in the cabin outside the bathroom, its loud, annoying ring was still audible.

 

“You want me to get that?” Brock called from what sounded like the loft.

 

“No. I—”

 

I raced out of the shower, hastily throwing my paint-covered sweater over myself as I ran out of the bathroom and grabbed my coat. Then I froze.

 

Brock was not in the loft as I had thought. He was sitting on the couch, gaping at my hastily covered, half-naked body.

 

Our gazes met, and I raced back into the bathroom, my phone still blaring.