Red Rose Bouquet: A Contemporary Christian Novel (Grace Revealed Book 2) Page 9
She rolled her eyes and laughed. A real laugh.
Brock leaned down and brushed her shoulder with his again. “Come on…”
With her palm, she pushed him away, and their gazes locked. The playfulness in her eyes faded, and she shrank into herself as she looked away. She didn’t want him to see, which only fed the longing to peel back the layers.
He nearly gave up that she’d give him an answer at all, but she didn’t bolt from the bench they shared. He waited, still and silent.
“I hate my job.” Her throaty voice quivered.
Whoa. That was way more serious than he was expecting. “That’s kind of big.”
She pushed her fingers through her hair. “Yeah, well…”
“Did you ever like it?”
After a deep breath, she pulled her posture straight. “One secret. That’s all you get.” Palm up, she held out her hand.
Let it go. Shouldn’t be that hard…shouldn’t have been so interested in the first place.
“Fair enough.” He fisted the keys he’d kept out of her reach and transferred them to her hand.
She slid from the bench and stood. “I’ll get your sweats back to you as soon as possible.”
“No rush. I know where you live.”
Pink touched her cheeks, but she tipped a polite nod as if to say, Good day, sir, which actually didn’t mean good day at all, but rather, I can’t stand to be here with you for another second. With a toss of her hair, she turned for the door.
Such a moody woman. Not the kind he should have any interest in at all. She’d be demanding. And exhausting. He totally wasn’t interested.
“Sherbert.” But teasing her was kind of fun.
Her retreat stopped short, but she didn’t face him.
“You’re welcome to come play the piano anytime.” He could make himself scarce when she did. Not that he expected that she would. But if she did…he could find a quiet corner to listen. That wasn’t stalker-ish or anything.
She peeked over her shoulder at him, the blush still very much on her pretty face. He waited for it…
Nothing. Just another nod, but not a word about her nickname.
Brock swallowed a chuckle. He’d just uncovered another secret.
And maybe a slight problem.
I remember family.
We had been one once.
A collage of outings—hiking and skiing and horseback riding. Days near the river with picnics. Evenings near the fire playing Taboo. Hot cocoa. Lasagna night.
Mom died, and so did everything else. We didn’t see you much after that. You started traveling. For work, that’s what you said. That didn’t seem like the truth. I don’t know what it was that took you away, because you didn’t travel before her accident. Whatever it was, it became more important than us.
And then one day you came home with her. Engaged. How could you be engaged? We’d never even heard of this woman, and you were going to marry her?
I guess you started a new family. A new life.
Eventually I started my own version of a new life too. I wonder if yours has worked out better than mine.
~13~
Cheryl drew a breath and began rifling through the rack of dresses. She hadn’t packed for a wedding—thanks for that, Ethan—and she didn’t really know what to wear to this one anyway. Truth was, she’d only been to a handful of weddings in her life, and none of them had been exactly fun. She’d avoided them if she could, especially after her dad’s. That had been a long, crappy day for a fourteen-year-old. The whole deal had gone down something like, “Cheryl, meet your new stepmother…she’s the one in the white dress. Oh and by the way, I’m moving to Cheyenne. You and your brother can stay with Nana while we get settled, and we’ll figure out something permanent later.”
Later had a long expiration date.
Why was she thinking about that now? Irrelevant. She was shopping for something acceptable to wear to Ethan’s wedding, not taking a drive down the deeply rutted road of bad memories.
Her hand landed on a lavender sundress. The delicate floral print seemed a little whimsical for her norm, but for a wedding… She had a semidressy gray cardigan with her. It’d do just fine for E’s outdoor, spur-of-the-moment nuptial arrangement. Glad to have found something acceptable, she paid the girl at the small boutique’s counter and made her way out the door.
Tourist season had stepped up in Steamboat. Not to full-capacity level, but definitely more traffic than there had been the previous week. Her cowgirl boots, which she’d found at the back of her closet at Nana’s, smacked the concrete sidewalk as she strode toward the little car she still hadn’t traded in. Wasn’t worth the effort now. She’d stay for Ethan’s wedding and catch a flight out of the valley the following Monday or Tuesday, depending on how long it would take to find full-time help for Nana.
She kept the rhythm of her steps at a fast clip—a habit developed from her all-business lifestyle. As she approached her car, parallel parked at the end of the main part of old town, she opened her purse and dug for her keys. Suddenly a hand cupped her elbow, large and clearly masculine. Immediately she stiffened, flexing the arm that had been touched and curling her fist on the opposite hand. With one motion, she shoved at the intruder with her shoulder and stomped on the large foot nearest her own.
“Ow!” A familiar voice yelped near her ear. “Sheesh, Sherbert. I’m not a thug.”
Pulling in a breath, Cheryl looked up to Brock’s bug-eyed expression. A moment of minor remorse came and fled before she could draw a second breath, and then she turned to face him straight on, her posture stiff with anger. “What the heck are you doing, Brock Kelly! You can’t sneak up behind a woman and not expect her to react.”
“Holy moly, girl. Do you always assume someone’s after you?”
She held his look with defiance and then blew out a lungful of air. “Sorry.”
“Wait, what?” The dimple on his right cheek poked out when he grinned. “Say that again.”
Twisting her mouth, she eyed him and then turned to finish her walk to the car.
“Come on,” he coaxed, his hand taking her elbow again.
“Watch it.”
“Say it. Sssss…” He drew out the sound like a snake, helping her sound it out.
So lame. “Shut up, Brock. You deserved it.”
They reached her car, and she stepped off the sidewalk, moving to the driver’s-side door. Brock jumped in front of it, blocking her way.
“Get out of the way.”
“Naw-uh. You owe me coffee, I think.”
“Not a chance.”
He leaned back against the car, kicking one foot over the other. “Okay, dinner, if you insist.”
Cheryl jabbed her fists onto her hips. “Move. Now.”
His shoulders moved while he chuckled. “Does that work in court?”
She squinted, pursing her lips.
“Guess what, Sherbert?”
She continued to glare, and he leaned down until his nose nearly touched hers.
“I’m not scared of you.” His minty breath danced over her upper lip.
She leaned back a little, but caught the look in his eye and stalled her retreat. Teasing laughter danced there, but something sincere lurked beneath the fun.
Brock straightened, unfolding his legs, and pushed off the car. “Okay, you win, kid.” His hand once again cupped her arm. “I’ll buy.”
“Dinner?”
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“Good. Coffee’s cheaper. A little.” Somehow, through that little exchange he had escorted her back to the sidewalk and away from her car. “Have you tried the new little bakery on the edge of town?”
“When would I have done that?”
He laughed as if she were joking. “Right now. But it’s not really within decent walking distance, so hop in.” Two steps later, he stopped at his Bronco.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re presumptuous?”
“Na
w. Charming, yes. Determined, absolutely. Never presumptuous.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re lying.”
He reached to open the passenger door. “I told you I wouldn’t lie to you. I wasn’t kidding.” Standing there with his hand still on the door, he waited. “Anytime now, Sherbert. It’s good coffee.”
“One secret.” She took a step closer, one hand on her hip.
One eyebrow pushed into his forehead. “Excuse me?”
“That’s the price. Tell me one secret.”
That dimple indented his cheek again. “I’m not sure this is a fair deal. You stomped on my foot, remember?”
“You snuck up on me.”
He studied her, the teasing never leaving his expression, and yet somehow his stare grew more serious. “Okay. Here it is.” He leaned again, this time tipping his head toward her ear. His breath tickled the skin on her cheek as he whispered. “Ethan told me you were coming into Steamboat today.”
She watched him as he stood straight. “And?”
“It’s not my day off.” One knuckle tapped on her nose, and then he turned to walk around the front of the car.
An avalanche of heat crashed over her. What was his game? She knew players, and Brock Kelly didn’t fit the profile—at least not this version. She’d known desperate men too. He certainly wasn’t one of those either.
This kind of situation called for direct confrontation. Cheryl steeled her resolve and climbed into the truck. She barely had her seat belt secured before she asked, “What are you after?”
“Told you. Coffee.”
“Skip the games, Brock.” She looked at him, and he paused before starting the engine. “Say it straight.”
All fun left his eyes, and that feeling returned again—the one that said he saw things in her no one else bothered to look for. A shiver spread over her arms, and she huddled closer to the door.
Brock cleared his throat and turned the key to start the engine. “Will you be my date tomorrow?”
“Date?” It sounded so…juvenile. And sweet. Not a come-on line. Not a suggestive euphemism. Just an honest, straight-up request. That had never happened before.
“Yeah. Will you be my plus-one at Ethan and Brandi’s wedding tomorrow night?”
She couldn’t help but stare. He didn’t fidget. Just sat, looking back at her with an open expression, and waited.
Not even an ice queen could say no to that.
“Okay.”
His mouth broke into a smile, and he nodded as he shifted into drive. “Good.”
Cheryl wiggled to face the dashboard. “You can’t call me Sherbert all night though.”
Brock chuckled again. “Too late to negotiate. You already agreed.”
“It’s never too late to negotiate.”
He smirked. “You’re not going to win this one.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Cup of coffee. And I’ve already won.” He reached over and tugged on a small clump of hair. “I happen to know that secretly you like it.”
She pulled away and shoved at his hand. “That is not true.”
He glanced at her with a raised eyebrow. “No lies. That’s the deal.”
Her arguments died in her throat.
~*~
She really is stunning.
Brock rubbed the back of his neck, reminding himself that constantly watching Cheryl qualified as staring.
But she’d agreed to join him.
Almost as astounding as the fact that he’d asked.
God, what am I thinking?
He’d felt bad, lying in bed the night before, thinking over his encounters with Cheryl. Ethan had put her in a bad spot—hadn’t been completely honest with her and then expected her to be something she clearly wasn’t when he’d thrust his fiancée in her face. She could have been more civil, but still…
Brock could have been a whole lot more compassionate.
Enter the date question. He hadn’t planned on a date—didn’t need a plus-one at a wedding. But maybe it would make her feel a little more comfortable. That was the extent of it.
Except he couldn’t stop staring at her. And wondering… Not good, and not his business.
Cheryl was not a woman to be messed with. Not because she was coldhearted, but because he knew, without knowing any details at all, that the chill in her heart hadn’t happened without a reason. He’d thought long and hard about it over the four days since their fishing fiasco. The old Sherbert he’d remembered from their high school years wasn’t dead. She was trapped. Somehow Brock felt commissioned to strike out on a search and rescue.
Her secret wounds whispered to him, crying for a warm wave of compassion, which could be a serious problem, because the physical attraction he felt when she was near would make this complicated. He’d already confused the honest desire to help his best friend’s little sister with the fact that Cheryl Thompson was a very beautiful woman. Especially when she smiled. Which she had, several times in fact, since he’d “bumped” into her an hour before.
“So…Brandi.” Cheryl took another sip of her refilled mug and let the statement-cloaked question hang in the air.
“Yes. Brandi, your brother’s fiancée.” Brock leaned his elbows on the table. “Was there a real question in there?”
“You seem to be a fan.”
He shrugged, almost flattered by her guarded jealously. Well, not almost. “She’s good for E.”
“How do you know?”
“She’s just a good person, and Ethan has really stepped forward as a man since he met her. He’s not as…self-oriented. I mean, come on—did you ever in a million years picture your brother leading groups of prepubescent kids on hikes and out for canoe trips on a regular basis?”
“I never pictured either of you doing such things.”
“Yeah, well…” Heat touched his face.
Cheryl set her mug on the table, challenge written on her face. “Did it take a woman to transform you?”
“No.” Was it getting warmer? Brock drummed his fingers against the table. No lies. That’d been the deal. “I lost a woman in the process, actually.”
Questions passed over her expression.
Might as well tell all. Everyone else knew anyway.
“Kayla. That was her name. We were engaged. No wedding date set or anything…just, well, we lived together—traveled together—you know. I guess I thought a diamond made everything okay. She was an agent, eventually became my agent while I was touring. We met at an event somewhere along the road. To make a long story short, I jumped in when I probably should have been more cautious, and then when God got ahold of my heart and changed my priorities, she wasn’t game.”
“She left you because you didn’t want to compete anymore?”
Anger pressed into his chest. Why’d it still bother him? “Yeah, more or less. She said we wanted different things in life and we just weren’t going to work.”
Cheryl didn’t answer. She sat, her silent gaze prickling insecurities that he’d long thought he’d left behind.
It didn’t—shouldn’t—matter what a woman thought of him, of his life choices. He was done with them.
Which explained why he’d come after Cheryl that afternoon, didn’t it?
“Did you love her?”
Brock’s attention darted back to her eyes. Clear and soft, blue like the color of a Colorado sky on an early spring morning. His breath caught while his heart jumped.
He focused on the question, pushing away the physical reaction she’d provoked. Had he loved Kayla?
No lies.
“I don’t know, really. Probably not like I should have. But I’d made a commitment, and that mattered to me. I guess it hurt that it didn’t matter all that much to her.”
Her probing eyes finally slid away, but somehow there was no relief. In fact, he missed the connection almost as soon as she severed it.
“Your turn,” he whispered, rebuking the intimacy of his tone. Clearing his throat, he settled back in his
chair, putting a little more distance between them.
A small smile tugged on the corner of her mouth. “This is quite a game you’ve invented.”
Not a game… Was it? He didn’t know what it was.
Cheryl drained what was left of her coffee and then toyed with her empty mug. “What do you want to know?”
What happened… Not that. She wasn’t ready, and for some reason, he was pretty sure he wasn’t either. Strange that. Not like her secrets really had any bearing on his life.
Cheryl waited.
Brock drew a breath and sorted through the questions he had about her…surprised by how many there were. Way more than a man ought to have for a casual friendship.
Skip that.
He picked a mystery and laid it out for her to solve. “Why did you go to law school?”
She breathed a little laugh, like she expected something tougher. “Why not?”
“You didn’t strike me as the lawyer type back in the day.”
“I’m surprised I struck you as anything back in your slope-junkie days.”
“Are you saying I was self-consumed?”
One of her shoulders lifted.
“Okay, maybe you’re right. But it wasn’t like I never noticed anyone else.” He risked eye contact again. “Not like I never noticed you.”
She ducked away, looking toward the windows on her right. A few silent heartbeats skipped by before she spoke again. “What do you think I should have done?”
“Honestly? Music. You always seemed happiest at the piano. I don’t understand why you stopped playing.”
Her jaw moved tightly, and Brock could see her swallow. “That’s a different question entirely. You only get one right now.”
He waited, wondering if he got to choose which secret she would tell.
“My dad.” Her voice turned hard. “He said he’d pay for law school. That was pretty much the only option. So that’s what I did.”
Bizarre. Why did her dad care if she went to law school or studied music? Or, better question, why’d she care what her dad wanted?