“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.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jane tried to calm her jittery stomach while Brock put on HGTV without her even asking, and then wrapped a blanket around her while he grabbed her cleaning supplies and got to work.
He stared down at the supplies like he wasn’t sure which to use first and then glanced over his shoulder and winked at her. His expression changed as he took two steps toward her and then pulled the blanket over her feet making sure they were completely covered-as if she could catch a chill with a man like him paying attention to her.
“Are you comfortable enough?” His eyebrows drew together as he leaned over her, his massive frame dwarfing hers. “Do you have everything you need?” He seemed genuinely concerned as he reached for her ankle but then pulled back and looked away.
“I’m…perfect,” she whispered. “And thanks to you, wrapped up like a burrito.”
The corners of his mouth lifted into a smile as he backed off and went back to the cleaning supplies.
Sure, her favorite channel was on.
But Brock was cleaning.
And she was supervising.
Muscles flexed beneath his black T-shirt as he moved around the room, first vacuuming—sending her apologetic looks every time he got close to her and the TV—and next, grabbing Windex and starting in on the windows.
The room was so dusty he’d need to vacuum twice.
But she didn’t want to tell him that. In fact, it would have been smarter for him to vacuum last, but again, interrupting the dream currently taking place in front of her very eyes seemed like a stupid idea.
He didn’t move fast.
He wasn’t graceful.
But he moved with a purpose, like he’d been given an important job and he was going to see it through. Her entire body clenched as his large hands moved across the glass, muscles still flexing. She almost wondered if the windows were going to crack under the pressure; it wasn’t as if he had a light touch.