Chapter 6
Brody
* * *
I see what she’s doing. She’s testing me. Testing us. She thinks if she starts firing off questions, eventually we’ll burn through everything and realize we’re not compatible. It’s not going to work. I feel that in my bones. But I’m all for trying because after she’s exhausted all arguments, she’ll have to face the facts.
She’s mine.
The sooner she accepts that fact, the sooner I’ll have her permanently in my arms.
There’s no denying we have hurdles. One of them is that I live in San Antonio. That hasn’t changed. I’m here to help my family for a few months and then go home.
I guide her toward her kitchen. “What should we cook?”
“Do you like fish? I have some salmon. We could make a salad to go with it.”
My stomach grumbles. “That sounds delicious.” I head straight for the fridge because the first thing this woman is going to learn about me is that I can cook. I doubt either of us will be cooking much once she joins me in the mansion because Gretchen does that. She’s the house manager, and she runs the entire household like a tight ship. Especially now that she’s hired several other people to help.
The point is, I won’t have Melody thinking that just because I can’t wait to see her barefoot and pregnant, I will also expect her to cook and clean. Never.
When I turn around, my hands are filled with vegetables to deposit on her small butcher-block island. As I catch her eye, she’s grinning. Fuck, she’s pretty. I hesitate so I can stare at her. Soak her in. This moment. I want to memorize all of our moments. This one feels important, though.
She turns toward the corner of the room, grabs a stool, and drags it over to the island before perching on it. “Twenty questions,” she declares. “I’ve met your brother Dallas and your sister Emilia. Are there other siblings?”
“Nope. Just the three of us. It was really just Dallas and me. Our parents got divorced late in life. My father remarried, and they had Emilia. She’s twenty-three years younger than I am.”
“Wow. That is an age gap.”
I start chopping vegetables, well aware that my girl is watching me. Judging me. Let her. She will not find me lacking in this skill. I’ve been living alone for most of my life. I like to eat, and I want to stay fit. The only way to accomplish that was to learn to cook healthy.
“Where are your parents now?”
“Dad’s in Europe with his wife. My mother died of cancer several years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. Now, tell me about your family.”
“Only child. My parents were missionaries overseas. I don’t think they expected or planned to have a child. They’re dedicated to saving the masses. But I came along later in their lives anyway.”
“Where are they now?”
“Africa. They made a life for themselves in Uganda. They still do a lot of missionary work, but they’ve made a home there.”
“So you grew up overseas?”
“Yes. I didn’t come to the US for the first time until I was about ten. I was homeschooled, and after passing my GED, I decided I wanted to go to college in the States. So I did. Much to the dismay of my parents, who think my time would be better spent serving others. College opened up a whole new world for me. I’d always kept a journal and written short stories, but after getting an English degree, I knew I wanted to be a writer.”
“How did you end up choosing romance?” I ask her.
She shrugs. “I’m a hopeless romantic, I guess. While my parents think they need to feed the nations, I like to make people smile. The messages I get from readers fill my heart. They love my books. So I write. It’s my calling.”
“How beautiful. Do you see your parents often?”
“No. It’s been a few years. We catch up by phone every few weeks, but they’re busy, and our lives don’t mesh. It’s okay. I’m not upset about it. I made different choices. I’m happy.”
I grab the lettuce and start ripping pieces. “How many boyfriends have you had?”
