The Bachelor Auction(34)
“Look.” Bentley snatched the sheet from the fridge and handed it to Brock. “She found your swear sheet!”
“That’s a load of hairy ants and you know it!” Bentley yelled. “How dare you goat my cock!”
Jane giggled behind her hand.
“That isn’t even on this sheet,” Brock said in a strangled voice as he ran his fingers through his hair again. The simple action was so sexy she had to look away.
“Made it up just now. Sounds dirty, right? Goat my cock.” Bentley shrugged and maneuvered his way over to Jane, sliding his arm around her body. “What do you think, Jane? What would a lady’s response be to that question? Hmm?” He leaned in too close, his eyes focused on her lips. “Would you goat my cock?”
Uncomfortable, she ducked away from him and returned to preparing dinner while Brock leveled his brother with a glare that would have left her trembling, though she wasn’t sure if it would be from fear or excitement. Maybe both. “All right, no more talk of cocks or asses. I’m trying to make dinner. Why don’t you guys go set the table or something?”
Everyone froze.
She glanced at each of their panicked expressions, finally landing on a thunderous Brock. His fists clenched and unclenched as a muscle twitched in his jaw.
“Sure thing.” Bentley and Brant quickly exited the room while Brock stayed.
He wasn’t saying anything, just staring her down like she was able to read minds.
Finally, she set down her knife and sighed. “What? What did I do this time?”
Brock’s eyes narrowed. “There won’t be any setting of the table. We’ll eat in the living room.”
“Fine.” Jane was too tired to argue and needed him to leave. Just being in the same room as him made her want to launch across the floor and beat him with her fists, and kiss him senseless. Something was seriously wrong with her. “We’ll eat in the living room.”
Bentley poked his head around the corner. “Are we using the china or—”
With a growl Brock turned on his heel and barked out. “Don’t set the table.”
“But—”
“I said”—Brock pounded his hand against the nearest wall—“we aren’t setting the fucking table.”
The next twenty minutes went by painfully slowly.
The twins helped her serve the food, but the meal was deathly silent except for the sounds of forks scraping against plates.
Brock was the first to finish.
He stood with his plate and stomped into the kitchen. The sound of running water filled the air, then the garbage disposal, then nothing.
“I’m going to bed,” he announced once he was back in the living room. He headed down the hall and then a door slammed.
Twice.
“He’s always been dramatic,” Bentley yawned, visibly relaxing as he set down his plate and leaned back in his chair. “Sorry, Jane.”
“Don’t be.” She hid her own yawn behind her hand. “He’s not my problem, nor my responsibility.”
“Hah.” Brant’s eyebrows shot up. “Brock has never been anyone’s responsibility.”
Jane frowned. “What do you mean?”
The twins shared a look before Bentley spoke. “He takes care of people; they don’t take care of him. Hell, the last time someone took care of him”—he lowered his head—“was when our parents were alive. He’d skinned his knee after falling off his bike, and our dad helped patch him up. It was the last time I saw Brock cry or show any sort of emotion other than irritation and anger.”
What? How could that be true? He’d smiled at the club when they’d been in the private room, when he’d given her the shoes. Her thoughts jumbled together as she pressed a hand against her chest. “You,” Bentley said softly. “He smiled with you.”
Chapter Twenty
He was literally going to get a medal for being an asshole. It wasn’t her fault, but she was the easiest target. Projecting every damn feeling of insecurity and loss onto her just seemed…easier, easier then dealing with it. Seeing her in the kitchen had been a fucking nightmare.
She was pounding the hell out of chicken, for shit’s sake.
Just like his mom.
She looked nothing like his mom—nothing.
And yet, seeing her there made his chest ache and his stomach drop to his knees. And with his brothers home, the house was full again.
It was all too familiar.
With a curse, Brock tossed off the giant comforter, pulled on a pair of sweats, and walked out of the room. He needed whiskey if he was going to have any hope of sleep.
Lots of whiskey.
He’d always prided himself on his control.