Page 4 of Baby, It’s Hot Inside

That kiss, too. If I hadn’t turned my head, he would have kissed me. Like for real kissed, with his lips on mine. Like an idiot, I realize my fingertips are pressed to my mouth right now.

Get it together, girl!

I climb out of bed and race through my small apartment looking for my phone, but it’s nowhere to be found, which means one thing...I left it at my parents’ house. I quickly shower and throw on some shorts and a t-shirt because even though we’re really close to Christmas, this is south Texas and it’s still hitting the nineties at the heat of the day. This sultry weather might not seem Christmassy to some, but it’s what I know, and it works for me. Especially since I’ve had my Christmas playlist going since the beginning of November. I know! I’m one of those.

My hair is a mop of wet ringlets by the time I pull my car into my parents’ driveway. The only other car here is a big black truck I don’t recognize. But I head into their house.

“Mom, it’s just me, I think I left my phone here last night.”

Brock steps out of the kitchen like he’s been waiting in there since I left him last night. I stop walking just before I run into the wall. He’s dressed in different clothes and I can’t help but appreciate the way his faded navy blue t-shirt molds to his broad, muscular shoulders. Or the way his worn jeans hang low on his narrow waist, accenting the muscular width of his thighs. He was always fit—he played football in high school. He went to France to go to college and study art history, yet he looks like he just worked out the whole time and perfected his already impressive form.

Then my mind catches up and I pause. “Wait a minute, why are you here?”

“Morning to you, too.” He hands me my phone. “You left this here and no one could get in touch with you. Your mom didn’t want you finding your phone and all the missed calls and messages while you were alone. Your dad is in the ER and I’m here to take you up there.”

My heart plummets and my stomach knots. “Oh my God! Does my sister know? Did anyone get in touch with my brother?” I look blankly at my phone, and see the barrage of notifications, then I glance up at Brock to see nothing but concern on his face. “What happened?”

He reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. “He had some chest pains. They’re evaluating him. He never lost consciousness or anything and your mom said he was flirting with the EMT’s, so I think he’s probably okay.”

My heart slows enough that the pounding disappears. I intentionally deepen my breathing to calm myself. I will not be helpful at all to my mom if I get to the hospital and I’m in a panic. “I’ve got to get to the hospital.”

Brock hands me a travel coffee mug. “I took a guess at how you like your coffee. Hope it’s okay.”

I nod numbly. “Thanks.”

“I’m not sure if your mom got a hold of Holly or Kris. He’s kinda hard to get in touch with though, isn’t he? He’s still in the military?”

“Yeah, I’ll see if Holly can send him an email. Though maybe I should wait until I know more. No need to worry everyone until we know what we’re dealing with.”

He wraps one of his long arms around my shoulders and guides me to the front door. “Come on. I’ll drive you.”

“That’s your truck,” I say stupidly.

“Yes. We might need a pole-vault to get you up there, Short-stuff.” His voice is teasing, but there is still nothing but honest concern in his eyes.

I realize with alarming clarity that this is not the same Brock who used to tease me in high school, nor the boy I used to play with. This is adult Brock. Man Brock. He’s a stranger to me now, and I’m not really sure what to do with that realization.

He pushes a button on his remote and a running board drops down. I step up on it, but it’s still too low for me to reach the elevated seat.

“Dammit, being short sucks.”

“Maybe it has its perks.” And with that he lifts me up by the waist and sets me into the seat. His hands are so hot I can feel them through the cotton of my shirt. I suck in a breath, but try to not have any other sort of reaction. He does not need to know that he’s the first man to touch me in months.

“Thanks.”

Then he’s in on his side and we’re driving to the hospital.

“He’s still young,” I mumble.

“What?” he asks.

“My dad. He’s still young. I mean I know he’s in his sixties, but that’s not that old.”

Brock reaches over and puts his hand over mine, gives it a squeeze. But he doesn’t move it away, just leaves his giant hand across my much smaller one, and I find the weight and warmth of it incredibly comforting.

“He’s going to be okay,” he says. “When your mom called me, I could hear him laughing in the background.”

The last bits of panic inside me ease and I close my eyes for a moment. “Thanks for waiting for me.” Then I take a sip of the coffee and moan at the sweet, creamy flavor. “This is perfect.”