Yeah, Krista was fucked.
Krista didn’t know what to expect when she moved into Brock’s place. Would they share a room? A bed? Meals? Condiments? She’d had roommates before, but they’d always been other women, and she wasn’t sexually attracted to any of them or expecting a child with them either. This situation was an entirely new kettle of fish, and by the awkward way they danced around each other in the kitchen the first few days, it was just as new for Brock.
But in the end, it wasn’t as weird as she anticipated. After the ultrasound appointment and lunch, they’d gone grocery shopping. Then he’d followed her home and pretty much insisted she start packing right then and there.
Exhausted, cranky and tired of fighting him at every turn, she acquiesced. In no time, both her car and his truck were full of stuff, plus Penelope, and she was knocking on her landlord’s door, letting them know the plan. Which was she was going to continue to pay rent for a bit, in case things with her broody and grumpy new roommate went sideways.
Brock’s house was a decent size and boasted several bedrooms. She had her own room, own bathroom and, after some reconfiguration of shelves, they split the fridge down the middle, sharing staples like condiments, milk and eggs.
The only thing they seemed to continuously disagree on was televisionshows. The man was addicted to the news or police and crime dramas, where all Krista wanted to do was abandon reality, her job and tragedy altogether when she was off the clock and watch The Food Network or Home and Garden Channel.
It quickly became a race and a battle for the remote, and Monday night was one of those nights. Krista had worked a day shift and was just getting into her “comfy pants” fresh from the shower when Brock called her for dinner.
So far, he’d been home every night and was proving to be no slouch in the kitchen, though every meal had been some kind of stir-fry. Not that she was complaining; it was better than roasted red pepper tetra pack soup and french fries.
“Smells good,” she said, wandering into the kitchen.
He was just finishing plating, gave her a side-eye and grunted a response.
She couldn’t get a read on the man. One minute he was all Mr. Sensitive and holding her hair as she lost her biscuits in the toilet, and then the next he was a closed book, almost seeming angry and barely saying two words. Did he have multiple personalities? And if so, had she met them all yet?
She went to reach for her plate with what looked to be delicious beef and broccoli over wild rice, but he pulled it away at the last minute, a wickedly sexy gleam in his eye.
Oh, shit.
Not this again.
Growling, she reached for it again. But he held it out of reach and used his other hand to finish plating.
“You’re an ass,” she grumbled at him, throwing her hands onto her hips.
“And you’re a brat.”
“I’m not going to do what you think I’m going to do.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m starving. Yourchildis starving.”
Another sexy side-eye, followed by a snort.
He finished dishing up his plate, which was nearly twice as full as hers, and then hesitantly handed over hers. Their eyes met, and suddenly everything was a blur as they both raced out into the living room in search of the remote.
Why she hadn’t hidden it earlier, she didn’t know. Perhaps it was because she secretly enjoyed this ridiculous little routine where they fought over which show to watch. It was oddly comforting and normal.
“Damn it!”
“You snooze, you lose,” he said smugly.
She eyed him coyly. “Thebabyreally likes The Food Network.”
He grunted again and made himself comfortable in his chair, switched the television to The Food Network and dove into his dinner.
She chuckled to herself.
A teddy bear with a suit of armor. That seemed to be Brock Hart. At least the little bit she knew of him anyway. Would he take off his suit of armor for her eventually?
Her eyes fell to his lap.
