I was already on thin ice with her. The Ryder account was outside my normal role, and Avery hated anything that looked like I was building an exit plan.
Avery leaned back, dropping the pen. "Okay, but if this gets messy, I won't clean it up for you."
The screen went black.
I set the phone onto the mattress and sat down on it, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyelids until I saw colors in the darkness.
Avery knew. She was just waiting for final proof to fire me.
I needed Brock.
I slipped downstairs, the floorboards cool beneath my bare feet. Brock’s door stood cracked open, the bedroom dim and quiet. A breeze drifted through the screen door, rustling the Stetson hung over the bedpost.
From the en suite, I heard the heavy rush of water filling the tub, then the squeak of the tap shutting off. Steam curled into the room, carrying the sharp scent of pine and Epsom salts.
I crossed the rug and stopped in the bathroom doorway.
Brock stood beside the porcelain clawfoot tub, wiping his hands on a towel. He hadn’t shaved in days. Without the rodeos,he’d let the scruff grow in. It made him look rougher, less like the polished version everyone else saw.
His gray sweats rode low, exposing the sharp lines of his hips and a dark trail of hair disappearing under the cotton band. My gaze lingered there, and heat crept up my neck.
Avery had just threatened my career, but right then, taking in the hard lines of his body, I couldn't bring myself to care.
He looked up. The second he saw me, whatever tiredness he'd been carrying disappeared.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“My boss called me.”
He tossed the towel aside and crossed the tile. His hands cupped my shoulders. "Tell me."
"Someone sent her a video of us at the fair. She asked if we were sleeping together."
His thumbs stroked the line of my collarbones. "What did you say?"
“I lied. Told her we play it up for the socials.”
He let out a slow breath, blue eyes steady on mine. "Good. You handle her however you need to. Tell her you hate my guts, as long as it protects your job."
I leaned my forehead against his chest. His skin was hot from the steam. “What if she finds out?”
He pulled me flush against him, tangling one hand in my hair. “It won’t be like this forever.”
We stood entangled, his steady heartbeat thudding against my ear, the damp bathroom air lingering around us.
"You spend all day managing everyone else's problems," he murmured. "Let me carry you for a minute."
He hooked his fingers under the hem of my shirt, his gaze asking for permission.
I nodded and lifted my arms.
He stripped the cotton off, tossing it onto the vanity. His knuckles grazed my ribs as he unhooked my bra, letting the straps slide down my arms. Kneeling, he worked the button of my jeans, sliding the denim and my cotton underwear down my hips in one fluid motion.
I stepped free. He gathered the pile, setting it on the closed toilet lid before standing to take my hand.
I stepped over the rim of the bathtub and sank into the water. The heat hit like a drug, Epsom salts soaking into every tight place I’d been holding—shoulders, jaw, the knot between my ribs.
Brock shoved his sweats and boxers down and climbed in behind me. The tub was a tight fit, but he arranged himself with his legs bracketing mine. I let out a long breath as my back settled against his bare chest.
