“Then there’s not a problem.”
She considered him, her hand on her hip. “Why? What’s wrong with my sister?”
He reared back. “N-nothing.”
“Then why aren’t you going out with her again?”
He ran his hand through his hair. “Because she’s not you.”
“Oh, heck no.” She threw her hands up toward him—and threw off any bad juju that came with that statement. “I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole.” There was no way she was going to go near Kelly’s territory. She loved her sister, but the woman’s bite was far worse than her bark.
He ran his hand through his hair again and again. The movement was completely distracting, considering the way his hair waved back into place, all perfect and silky-looking. Seriously, did the guy use any product, or had the gods touched their finger to his head and called it styled?
“Okay, how about just because I want to spend time with you?” he offered.
Her phone dinged another reminder. “Time is what I don’t have right now.”
“I can see that.” His blue eyes sparked. “What you need is an assistant.”
Her stomach flipped. “I have one.” Theoretically, Sheila was not opposed to an increase in Brock exposure. There were just so many possible things that could go wrong if she stepped into that particular ray of sunshine. One of the biggest was that her alligator sister would snap. She loved Kelly. Kelly was the only sibling she had. And while they may not have the same goals in life, Sheila had long ago come to the understanding that they could still be sisters.
But if she messed with a guy Kelly had her eye on, if she “stole” him … although how you could steal a person was ridiculous. The person had a choice in the matter. But still. Kelly wouldn’t see it in that light. The fact that Brock had gone out with Kelly first, and decided he didn’t like herthat way, was not Sheila’s fault. She’d done nothing—nothing—to entice him her way.
At least, nothing on purpose.
He stepped closer, bringing that manly smell with him and breaking down Sheila’s defenses. Oh heck, she could always claim they were doing work-related tasks. “I guess I could use some help,” she hedged. “With the project.”
“What time and where?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’ve already filled your contractual quota of volunteer hours. I can’t pay you for this.”
“This is about doing something for the team. In fact, I’ll bring a couple more guys so we can split up the work.”
She grinned. That was about the most perfect thing he could have said. She loved the Redrocks, and she loved volunteers. “Okay, tomorrow, eight a.m., in the lobby. We’ll start the rounds.”
“I’ll bring the doughnuts.” He wrapped his knuckles on the table, his devil-may-care grin stealing the air right out of her lungs. “Bye.”
“Bye,” she wheezed out. She watched him walk away, admiring the way his jeans fit. There were jeans, and then there were jeans on Brock. The difference was like splashing in a kiddie pool or diving into an Olympic-sized facility. The Olympic version was a whole-body experience.
She was headed to the deep end with this guy, and she’d have to play it safe.
There was no way she could spend a whole day with him and not do something embarrassing—like run her hand over his abs or pass out because she sniffed him too often. Tomorrow was going to be a test of her Brock-endurance levels. A sweet little shoulder angel gave her a pat and told her she could do this. The snarky little devil told her to throw herself into the water and let him save her.
Chapter Eight
Brock
Brock rolled his window up after telling Ricky to ride shotgun. He was from Southern California and used to moisture and the smell of sea salt in the air. If he couldn’t have that, then he’d take the air conditioner over the dry dessert air.
Ricky climbed in and lounged in the passenger seat. He was set to fly home in a week. He had a girl there that he was looking forward to spending some time with and maybe bringing her back with a ring on her finger. Brock was on standby for best man duties. He wouldn’t mind spending Thanksgiving in the Dominican Republic, but his parents would be disappointed.
“Why you no let me drive?” griped Ricky. His accent thickened when he was upset, and he was in quite a mood that Brock didn’t hand over the keys.
“Because we want to live,” replied Heath Darsey from the back seat. He bumped the seat with his knee, making Ricky lurch forward. Heath was a big guy. The designated hitter weighed in at 290 pounds. He had a full beard and a belly. If you didn’t know he was an athlete, you could mistake him for a couch potato—except for the sharpness in his gray eyes. It was his eyes that told pitchers he was going to take their best and knock it right out of the park.
Brock laughed. “I’m not letting you drive my truck in traffic, man. You need more practice.”
Ricky glowered. “I’m going to buy my own car next season.”
