And in that moment, I found I loved that.
On that thought, I heard Brock snarl, “You have got to be shitting me,” and my head snapped up.
“Who are you?”
At the sound of the familiar voice asking that question, my hands slid down the counter and curled tight around the edge as my chest compressed so deep it felt like I was being crushed.
Damian.
“It doesn’t matter who I am. What matters is that you are not here. You are never here.
You are never anywhere near this f**kin’ house, Tess’s f**kin’ bakery or Tess. I see you or I hear you are, honest to f**kin’ God, I’ll deal with you and you do not want me to do that.”
Brock was still snarling, it was vicious, biting and I could feel his mood all the way across the living room, through the kitchen and to me. It was filling the house, beyond his pissed off snap of electricity, this was rough and abrasive, scoring at my skin.
“I beg your pardon?” Damian asked.
Oh no. Oh God. Oh no.
Damian was at least three inches shorter than Brock. Damian was probably twenty pounds lighter if not more. Damian was lean in the sense he was lean, not muscled, no bulk. He was fit but there was no power to his frame like there was to Brock’s. In a physical tussle, Brock would take him, easy.
And Damian wouldn’t give one flying f**k. Damian spent most of his time pissing in corners. Damian would not take to a threat well.
Not at all.
I started to move around the island to instigate damage control, my eyes on Brock’s back seeing he had his body between the door and the doorjamb, his big frame blocking Damian from view, his back to me.
Still, he lifted an arm out behind him like he had eyes in the back of his head and could see me starting to approach and he barked, “Tess, do not f**kin’ move.”
I halted at the side of the island.
“If Tess is in there, I’d like to speak to her,” Damian, voice tight, requested.
“Did you not hear me ten f**kin’ seconds ago?” Brock asked.
“Who are you?” Damian demanded to know.
“You didn’t hear me ten f**kin’ seconds ago,” Brock decided.
“All right, I’ll ask politely. Please move aside so I can talk with Tess,” Damian asked.
To that, Brock stated, “In five seconds I’m closing the door. You’re not in your Escalade and on the road sixty seconds after that, I’m on the phone with the cops. No joke, no delay.
Got that?” Then, as he promised, he stepped out of the door, closed it in Damian’s face and locked it.
I stood where I was at the side of the island.
Brock moved to the window and yanked hard on the cord to the blinds to expose the glass.
Then he stood in it, arms crossed, feet planted.
I licked my lips.
Brock didn’t move a muscle.
I put a hand out to the counter and held on.
Brock didn’t twitch.
I counted to ten. Then to twenty.
Brock leaned to the side, yanked the cord and the blinds dropped with a crash.
Then he turned and prowled through the living room towards me, one hand to his back pocket. He had his phone out by the time he stopped a foot away.
I held my breath when I saw his face up close.
“Honey –” I whispered then stopped speaking when his hand came up abruptly.
I tensed as it came to me but, whisper-soft and unbelievably sweet, his fingertips skimmed my cheek on their way to glide into my hair where his hand curled around the back of my head and he pulled me closer.
I went because I didn’t have a choice and because I wanted to. When I got near, I put my hands to his abs.
“Mood’s broke, sweetness,” he muttered. “And I need to make some calls. If you’re tired, go get ready for bed or, if not, give your girl a call. I’ll be in in a minute and we’ll get some shuteye. Yeah?”
“Is he gone?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
I swallowed.
His hand gave me a squeeze and I watched his eyes flare.
Then he asked, “He won’t stay gone, will he?”
I shook my head.
His mouth got tight.
Then he said gently, “Give me a minute to make some calls, baby.”
I nodded. His hand gave me another squeeze then sifted through my hair until it was gone.
Then I moved to my bedroom.
Okay, it was safe to say I wasn’t tittering with excitement nine months ago when my abusive ex-husband who raped me contacted me for the first time in over four years, shattering the illusion I’d built that I was safe in a life that no longer contained him. And it was also safe to say I deliberated at length going to lunch with him.
But I loved his Dad.
Donald Heller was a good man, he adored me openly and it cut to the quick when, to erase Damian from my life, I had to break ties with anything that had anything to do with Damian, including his Dad. Donald tried to keep up a relationship with me but I did not encourage this and he finally quit trying. News that he was unwell broke my heart, gave me guilt and, just as Damian knew it would, spurred me to show at lunch.
It was a mistake that I would pay for quite a bit, it would turn out. And this settled in my soul the troubling fact that I’d allowed myself to be played, again, by Damian.
I left him the day after he raped me. My dog and I lived with Martha for the year and a half it took finally to get a divorce then I moved to my own apartment. And for that year and a half, Damian stopped at nothing to “win me back”.
I couldn’t take another year and a half.
Unfortunately, this current scenario wasn’t conducive to me finding that perfect nightgown to wear the first time I slept the night with Brock Lucas. We had slept together, twice, both times me falling asleep with him on my couch while watching a movie. No, strike that, three times adding last night.
But, except for last night, he’d always been gone before I woke and we had never slept together in a bed.
This was a momentous occasion which I should mentally and, arguably more importantly, fashionably prepare for but at that moment, I didn’t have it in me.
I sorted through my nightgown drawer with trembling hands and luckily my inherent girl power kicked in and my fingers honed in on my cotton candy purplish pink, embroidered eyelet nightie with its empire waist, spaghetti straps and teensy weensy ruffle at hem and bodice. Cute, girlie, comfortable therefore it seemed a casual choice like it was any other night but it bared lots of skin, showed serious leg and a hint of cle**age all of which stated plainly I was making an effort for my man.