Page 60

My phone vibrates against the dresser.

Brock: In your driveway. Take a breath, Megan. You have nothing to prove to anyone today.

A soft laugh escapes me, loosening the knot in my chest. I type back quickly.

Me: You’re sure your sister won’t cross-examine me the second I step in?

Brock: Emily might try. But you’re with me. Come downstairs.

I grab my wool coat, slip my purse over my shoulder, and lock the apartment door behind me.

When I step outside, Brock is waiting by his dark SUV. He’s wearing dark denim and a heavy charcoal wool sweater that emphasizes the broad cut of his shoulders. The moment he sees me, his dark eyes soften, his gaze lingering over me with an open, unhurried warmth that sends heat straight to my skin.

"Hey," he murmurs, stepping forward to catch me before I reach the sidewalk. His gloved hands cup my jaw, tilting my face up.

"Hey."

He leans down and kisses me—firm, thorough, and warm against the chilly morning air. When he pulls back, his thumb brushes the curve of my cheek. "You look incredible. That dress is going to distract me all afternoon."

"It’s respectable," I tease, though my pulse picks up.

"It’s beautiful because you’re in it," he counters, guiding me to the passenger side with a steady hand resting against the small of my back.

During the short drive, Brock keeps one large hand anchored over mine on the console, his thumb drawing slow, rhythmic strokes across my knuckles. He runs through the family roster with easy familiarity: his mother, Catherine, who keeps everyone organized; his father, David, who mostly observes quietly; his sister, Emily, an attorney who is fiercely protective; and his younger brother, Tyler, who jokes his way through every holiday.

When we pull into his driveway, two other cars are already parked along the curb. My throat tightens.

"Hey," Brock says quietly, shifting into park and turning toward me. He catches my chin gently, his expression steady and reassuring. "Kayla loves you. I love you. If you need a break or some quiet at any point, just give me a look. Understood?"

"Understood," I whisper, leaning into his palm. "I'm ready."

Inside, the house is alive with warmth and conversation. The rich aroma of roasting herb butter, caramelized onions, and spiced cider fills the air. Brock takes my coat, hangs it neatly in the entryway closet, and immediately laces his fingers through mine, anchoring me beside him as we walk toward the kitchen.

"Look who finally made it," a woman's voice calls out.

At the center island, a tall woman with Brock's sharp bone structure looks up from a cutting board. Brock’s mother, Catherine, turns from the oven with a bright smile, wiping her hands on an apron.

"Everyone, this is Megan," Brock announces, his voice calm and clear.

Catherine crosses the kitchen first. "Megan, dear. It’s wonderful to finally meet you in person. Brock has told us so much about you."

She pulls me into a warm, genuine hug that immediately takes the edge off my nerves. "Thank you for having me, Mrs. Rhodes. Everything smells incredible."

"Catherine, please," she corrects with a smile. "And you arrived just in time. The men have been completely useless with the dining room chairs."

David Rhodes steps over from the dining room. He’s tall and broad-shouldered like Brock, with silver hair and a reserved, dignified posture. His handshake is firm and polite. "It's good to meet you, Megan."

"You too, David."

Emily sets down her knife and dries her hands as she approaches. Her dark eyes are perceptive and direct, taking in my face and the natural way Brock's hand rests over mine. Her husband, Jason, offers a friendly wave from the stovetop, while a younger man leaning against the refrigerator—Tyler—raises a beer bottle in greeting.

"So," Emily says, offering a wry, assessing smile. "You're the teacher who captured my brother's attention."

The room quiets slightly. There’s a distinct note of cautious evaluation in her voice.

"Emily," Brock says, his tone dropping into a low warning.

"I'm just being honest, Brock," Emily replies, glancing between us before turning her full attention back to me. Her expression is serious, but not hostile. "Kayla is seven. She went through a lot during the divorce, and you've been her teacher for two straight years—first grade and now second grade. She adores you. When Brock told us you two were together, my immediate thought was her stability. If things get complicated, or if people start gossiping around town, that's a heavy burden for a seven-year-old."