“Brutal.”
“Honestly, though, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
My brain turned to mashed potatoes when he started to tie up his loose, wet curls into his signature bun. Especially when I noticed the way his shirt lifted from the movement, exposing the strip of fine blond hair leading from his belly to his cock.
“—and the three of us couldn’t be more different from each other, but somehow we’re closer than ever now as adults.”
Oops.
“And your folks?”
His smile faltered. “What about them?”
I hooked a finger through his belt loop, tugging him closer. “You probably come from one of those families who go on cruises together and sing or some shit.”
“Like the Von Trapps?”
“Or . . . Joe Bros.”
His eyes twinkled with amusement. “Trust me, there’s a reason you haven’t heard me sing.” He stepped away from my grasp before adding, “And my dad would sooner choose death by grizzly bear over forming a family band.”
He might have meant it as a sarcastic comment, but there was a flash of pain behind his eyes that had me wanting to hug him to my chest and never let go. I wanted to ask him more, but something told me that pushing Brock Heller for too much information would only scare him off.
Then again, maybe if I offered him something in return . . .
“I get it, man,” I said. “It feels like my parents and I speak two different languages ninety-nine percent of the time. I can’t even remember the last time we talked about anything other than baseball. Or John Lennon’s greatest songs.”
Brock’s gaze softened. He took my hand and intertwined our fingers. The gesture felt intimate and foreign, but also made my stomach do a fucking somersault.
“To be fair,” he said. “There are alotof John Lennon songs.”
I snorted. “True.”
“Which leaves plenty of things for you to talk about.” He swallowed, adding, “You’re lucky.”
I rolled his hand over in mine then lifted it. “Yeah.” I pressed my lips to his knuckles. “I am.”
He blinked, opened his mouth, and then closed it again. As I had learned, this was a classic Brock-ism. It meant he had something important to say but was either afraid to or was having trouble finding the right words.
So, I waited.
Our flight back to Portland didn’t leave for another two hours, so I had time. We both knew my endurance—and stubbornness—knew no bounds.
“You never told me the answer.”
I arched a brow, startled by the sudden change of subject. “Told you what?”
“The best John Lennon song.”
There was no stopping the smile that crept up my face. I should have known he would home in on that. Brock might have been “the enemy,” so to speak, but he was a damn good journalist. He was even better at effortlessly shifting the conversation—any conversation—away from himself.
I would let him have the win. This time.
Besides, a Holiday Inn Express outside of Tucson was hardly the place for discussing family trauma.
What came next would either shock or impress him, but it was a risk I was willing to take.
Unleash the nerd.
