Page 64 of Nailed

“What? You don’t think I’m affectionate?” he asked, tilting his head to the side.

“Very, very selectively,” I conceded. I knew he cared about Cal. I knew he cared even about Rafe, though he was loath to admit it. As if he could read my mind and was adding me to the list, he reached and took my hand. The warmth of his palm spread from my arm throughout my entire body.

I could hear Cal and Clara from here, their laughter and casual conversation floating in from the bay room and adding to the warmth that was now reaching my head. I relaxed into Brock’s touch. Having everyone here just felt…right. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this content outside of sex with any of them. It was a different kind of satisfaction. Brock’s mouth tugged up at the side.

“You look happy,” he noted.

“I feel happy,” I said honestly, internally acknowledging that it was the first time I let myself say it out loud. I was still worried about Rafe. He was quiet as ever, not really participating but still working and doing his due diligence. But having Brock and Callum and Clara around me and feeling their support made me confident that things would turn out alright.

I wasn’t wallowing in fear or anxiety all alone.

“I think it’s just one of those moments where this place actually feels like a home to me,” I said.

His hand tightened a little on my hand, just enough to emphasize his presence. “Not something you’re used to? I don’t mean to assume, but I’ve seen some of your work. If you’re not constantly moving around, it means you spend more time on the job in a random city or country than you do at home.”

“I’ve never really had one.”

It slipped out before I could really think about what I was saying. Brock’s eyes widened in surprise but he didn’t say anything, waiting for me to continue if I wanted to.

No point in hiding it now, I thought to myself. He’s seen enough of you already.

It was surprisingly easier to start the story than I thought it would be. “I was an army brat, so moving around became second nature to me at an early age. But one day, my dad came back from deployment with something missing in his eyes and a bottle in his hand. I was eight and my mom barely handled that better than I did. She was gone by the time I turned twelve.”

Brock’s face softened, concern creasing his brow. I flinched and resisted the urge to reject his pity. Old habits and whatnot. Instead, I let the story continue, cutting out as many ugly bits as I could.

“He became a very different man, a violent one. I had to learn to take care of myself way before I needed to. When I turned fifteen, I ran. The only thing worth taking with me was a camera I’d gotten for my birthday one year. It’s not the one I have now, by the way. This one came from an old boyfriend who is another story altogether,” I said, half laughing.

But Brock was not. “That’s why you don’t like staying in one place, huh? Feels a bit too close to home.”

“It felt claustrophobic,” I said. My voice had dropped to a whisper. I felt raw and exposed, and it took all of my self-control not to retreat back into that shell of independence. But then Brock tucked my chin between his fingers and thumb.

“You’re home now, Lauren.”

I swallowed the tears I refused to let fall. “I only just realized that I spent most of my life running from the feeling I wanted. That. To feel at home.”

“I hope you don’t run from this,” he said.

His face, like his words, was wholly unguarded, the walls knocked down to rubble. I swore I could hear his heartbeat in the quiet pause. It might’ve been my own. “The thought hasn’t even crossed my mind.”

I leaned in first but Brock met me in the kiss, his hand moving to cup my jaw and neck. Hands that had turned brick and stone into homes held me steady, soft despite the callouses.

We broke apart, our foreheads pressed together.

“I’m not going anywhere either,” he said.

The weight of that promise settled between my ribs and I kissed him again, a quick but deliberate kiss that spoke of a claim. An ownership.

We walked back to the bay room hand-in-hand, and the atmosphere was such an instant shift that it gave me whiplash.

Callum and Clara were engaged in a somewhat heated debate in front of a wall. When Brock and I sauntered over, Clara looked to me in relief. She threw her hand towards Cal and the general area behind him.

“Lauren. Your friend here seems to think that covering the holes in the wall with a plastic sheet,” she paused for dramatic effect. “Is going to be more than okay for the exhibition.”

“Weren’t you two best buddies just five minutes ago?” I asked, trying to stifle my laughter.

“Past tense,” Clara said with a sigh. “We don’t see eye-to-eye.”

“I’m just trying to explain to Miss Reyes that we don’t have time to fix the holes in the wall before the exhibition,” Callum said, looking confused as though he just didn’t get why this was so hard for Clara to understand. But it was obvious that they were still just messing with each other. Mostly. “It’s not a terrible idea.”