The Bachelor Auction Read online

  She’d always thought of herself as curvy, not light as a feather, but Brock carried her like she weighed nothing more than a cup of rice. She remembered how strong he’d felt when he’d picked her up at the party—how good he smelled. Memories of their first meeting surfaced as his body flexed around hers.

  He deposited her on the couch, went into the kitchen, and returned with two mugs of whiskey.

  “Thanks.” Her voice was rough, edged with the tension already coiling in her belly at Brock’s proximity and her own sudden change of heart. Maybe it would be best if he was still angry with her, projecting all his feelings onto the help. At least then she wouldn’t fall for him, right?

  “I see why you couldn’t sleep.” His light southern drawl wrapped around her like liquid heat. “If you stare any harder at the wall it’s going to crack.”

  Jane immediately looked down into her mug and took a slow slip, careful not to cough and spew whiskey all over him. “Just a lot on my mind.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  No. Because talking meant bonding, bonding meant hurt later on down the road. And she didn’t want to focus on the future, a future where she wouldn’t be able to sit in the world’s most perfect ranch house with the world’s most beautiful man and sip whiskey out of a nice brown mug.

  “Tell me about the auction.”

  That did it. His smile fell and a cold expression chilled his features. He sat back and took a giant swig of whiskey that seemed to go on forever. He finally set his empty cup down and made a face. “It’s for charity.”

  She almost laughed out loud at his disgusted expression. “And you hate being charitable?”

  “Hardly.” He snorted. “I’d much rather throw millions of dollars at a charity by hosting a dinner; even the ball that the old man’s throwing is a good idea. Ten thousand dollars a head is a good way to bring in money to the foundation. It’s the whole auction part that’s…” He cursed. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about you?”

  “You’re much more interesting.” He’d brought up a blanket and she tried pulling it over her ankle, but before she could do it herself Brock was at her side. He pulled the blanket over her and within the same breath he lifted her foot, sat down next to her, and placed her leg over his lap.

  Jane’s breath hitched as he ran his fingers over her ankle in a smooth caress before locking eyes with her. “Is this okay?”

  She gave him a jerky nod, mentally groaning at how eager she must look for his touch, his proximity.

  Oh, this was bad.

  So bad.

  His hand started to move up her calf. Oh, this was good, so very good.

  “You were saying.” Somehow, miraculously, she found her voice as he continued to lightly knead the muscles in her calf.

  “The auction is stupid. Plain and simple.”

  She frowned. “Then why did you say yes?”

  His hand froze and he went completely still. “Saying no wasn’t an option.”

  “But…” Her eyes narrowed. “You always have a choice.”

  “It would seem that way. I believe that’s how life is supposed to work—you’re in control of your own destiny, you always have a choice, but what people never admit is that although you can say no to something, there might be horrible consequences. Which basically means it’s not really a choice. The word ‘choice’ is just there so that it seems fair, so that it looks good, so the situation looks balanced, when it’s never been balanced, not for a long time.”

  Jane wasn’t sure if they were still talking about the auction or something else.

  “So, what do you think about the auction? Don’t lie and say you have no opinion about it, either.”

  A smile teased the corners of her mouth. “Clearly you know me well.”

  “All women have an opinion.”

  “And all men are led by their stomachs.” She winked.

  He licked his lips. “Among other things, yes.”

  “I, uh…” She twisted her hands in her lap, suddenly nervous. “I think that it’s nice that you’re willing to put your future in the hands of a grandfather with a desire to go to raves at the age of eighty-two.”

  Brock groaned as his head fell back against the couch. “Ugh, tell me about it.”

  “It’s…cute,” she said, trying to make him feel better.

  “Cute,” he repeated, still not looking at her. “Cute.”

  He said it a few more times before glancing at her.

  “What?” She rubbed her lips together.

  “A man my age doesn’t want to be cute.”

  “Your age?”

  “Hey, you’re the one that called me old.”

  “You’re thirty-five.”

  “I know my age, thank you.”

  “So maybe according to my twenty-two years you seem old. That’s all I meant.” She smiled as his face paled.

  “T-twenty two?” He stared at her. Hard. “You’re twenty-two?”

  “You say it like I’m diseased.”

  His mouth dropped open and closed. “I suddenly feel like a cradle robber.”

  “Because I’m a child?” She pulled the blanket closer, needing the protection, thinking that if she could just bury her body into it, he wouldn’t see how his words affected her.

  “Shit.” He took one look at her expression and leaned across the couch and cupped her face. “I didn’t mean that. I just…it took me by surprise, that’s all.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “I’m sorry; maybe I’m more tired than I thought. I should probably go back to bed.”

  “I’ll join you,” Brock added then stumbled over his words. “I mean, I’ll take you. Damn it, sorry. Clearly we’re both tired.”

  She didn’t have a chance to say anything more before he picked her up and carried her slowly up the stairs, careful not to bang her ankle on the wall. Once they were back in her bedroom he placed her on the bed and pulled the covers over her, his eyes searching, yearning, as raw emotion raged like a war across his dark features.

  Did he want something more from her? Did he feel the electric pull between them, too? So many times it seemed like he had more to say, like he wanted to pull her into his arms and devour her. Just the thought had a shiver running down her spine.

  God knew, she wanted him.

  Even though she knew she would end up without him in the end, it didn’t make her feelings toward him go away, though she wished they would.

  “I’m sorry, Jane,” he whispered, tucking her hair behind her ear over and over again, as if he couldn’t stop touching her. “Like I said, I was surprised, and apparently I turn into an ass when I’m caught off guard.”

  “Most old people do,” she joked in a deadpan voice. “I think they’re afraid of heart failure. Either that or their hearing is already going so they get defensive.”

  His eyes darkened. “Very funny.”

  She laughed into the blankets. “I thought so.”

  “Keep making fun of me and I’ll throw you over my knee.”

  She stilled.

  His smile froze and then turned very dangerous, so dangerous she could feel the impact of it all over her body.

  “I should go,” he whispered, still not moving.

  “Probably.” Her throat worked hard to swallow as he leaned over the bed and pressed a kiss to her forehead. His lips slid down to her temple and then her cheek. An inch from her mouth he waited, hesitated.

  Her body burned for more of his kisses, more of his touch.

  But she didn’t know what to do. The last man who had kissed her had told her she was frigid because she wouldn’t sleep with him.

  Would Brock be the same?

  He was used to women giving him whatever he wanted—she’d fall short.

  Finally, she sank back into the pillows. “Goodnight, Brock.”

  He let out a heavy sigh and pulled back. “Goodnight, Just Jane.”

  When he was almost to the door, she called out, “Don’t forget to remove t
he dentures!”

  With a curse, Brock stumbled into the door and then turned around and glared. “What did I say about teasing me?”

  Feeling braver now that he was farther away, she arched her brow. “Maybe I like being punished.”

  He gripped the doorway with his large hands and swore. “Now she tells me.”

  “I figured you were already leaving so I was safe.”

  “I could always sprint back toward that bed.”

  “But you won’t.”

  He sighed. “Not tonight. But Jane?”

  “Yes?” Was that her voice? All husky and desperate?

  “Tomorrow is a new day, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she croaked, “It is.”

  “Sweet dreams.”

  “You too.”

  “If you think I can leave your room and actually sleep…” He shook his head, then gave her a sad smile. “Cheers to a night of tossing and turning.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The next morning, Brock yawned over his scrambled eggs and toast, then yawned again as he took a long draw of coffee, and one last time as he stabbed his sausage with a fork.

  “Long night?” Bentley said with a grin. “Dreaming about all the possibilities that didn’t actually happen? Dancing like little erotic ballerinas in your head? Ones who rhyme with shame? Lame? Game?”

  Brock let out a grunt and flipped off his brother just as Brant helped Jane to the table. Brock nearly jumped to his feet, knocking his chair backward against the floor. “You’re up?”

  Jane thanked Brant by kissing him on the cheek, and sat in the chair across from Brock. The rutting bastard, thought Brock. “Yes, sorry I slept in.”

  Damn, if that’s what sleeping in looks like, sign me up. From her bright chocolate eyes to the pink spreading across her cheekbones, she looked stunning.

  He gripped his fork so damn hard he was surprised it didn’t bend in half.

  “Pity, it’s such nice silverware, too. Some might say an antique.” Bentley grinned at Brock’s hand while Jane gave them both a confused look.

  “You clearly slept well, my beautiful, sexy, sweet—” Bentley stopped talking the minute Brock slid a knife toward him and glared. “Jane?”

  “It’s too early for violence,” Brant muttered.

  “Um, I slept okay.” Jane stared down at her empty plate, a smile curving her lips like she was keeping a secret.

  Brock found himself grinning at her, like he had a right to, like he’d spent the night in her arms, when really he’d taken a cold shower and slept with half a bottle of whiskey. Thus the hangover currently pounding on both sides of his head.

  “Glad to hear it,” Bentley sighed. “I was worried you’d be all hot and bothered.” He paused, sharing a look with Brock. “You know, because of all the blankets I’m sure this jackass piled on top of you before abandoning you.”

  “Oh, Brock didn’t abandon me.” Jane shrugged. “We shared a midnight drink last night.”

  “No,” Brant said in a dry tone. “That’s a shock. What did he do? Pound down your door and demand you pour whiskey into his cup because he lacks the intelligence to do it himself?”

  Brock groaned. “I don’t know why I put up with either of you.”

  “Family sticks together,” Bentley pointed out. “Just ask Grandfather.”

  The room fell silent and tense.

  “Jane.” Suddenly desperate to spend more time with her away from his brothers—even though he knew nothing could come of it—he stood. “Why don’t you eat a few more bites and I’ll start the cleaning.”

  Bentley choked on his coffee while Brant hid a laugh behind his hand.

  “What?” Brock shrugged. “I’m going to help her. What are you jackasses going to do? Take a selfie and post it on Instagram?”

  Bennett removed his hand from his mouth. “Did you just say selfie?”

  “Does he even know what Instagram is?” Bentley added. “Jane, do me a solid; check the window and see if one of the pigs is flying.”

  Brock clenched his teeth. “I know about Instagram. I just choose not to take pictures of myself with the world’s longest selfie stick!”

  “Known as my penis.” Bentley grinned then raised his hand for a high five. Brant hit it and gave Brock an apologetic look while Jane burst out laughing.

  Great; he was back to being Boring Brock, getting offended and uncomfortable while his brothers laughed at his expense.

  “Why don’t you start with the game room?” Jane said, completely ignoring his brothers. “And I’ll have one of the guys help me up.”

  The hell they would.

  Brock sat. “I’ll wait.”

  “’Course he will.” Brant sighed. “Have you even fed the animals yet today?”

  Brock gave them a blank stare.

  “Fine.” Bentley stood. “We’ll do it. We’ll start with the pigs. But if you hear screaming you better come running. I’ve heard they eat humans, and I can’t promise I won’t accidentally push Brant into the mud for a photo op.”

  “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.

&nb
sp; 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.

  Though she knew him capable of one.

  Shivering, she pulled the blanket closer.

  Why was he even helping her?

  Was it out of pity? Or because he really did want her company? Maybe he even blamed himself for the rooster attack?