Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

PRESLEY

Normally when I get home from work, I shed my work clothes quickly, put on sweats, pull my hair into a bun, and get comfy. If Brock and I were still just friends, I wouldn’t change a thing about this routine. If I was still trying to convince Brock that I could just be his friend, I’d make myself as schlubby as possible to prove it to him.

But we’ve entered Operation Expose Brock, and I’m ruthless.

I can’t be obvious, or he’ll know immediately that something’s up. So I choose a pair of leggings that does very nice things for my butt and a cropped half-zip hoodie that’s the perfect amount of oversized. I happen to know this combo makes me look leggy. I take my hair down from the ponytail I wore all day today to keep it out of my face while I was working. There’s a slight wave to it from the braid I wore on Tuesday, so it looks good without looking like I tried too hard. I touch up my make-up and hope that’s not something Brock will notice—that my makeup looks fresh after a long day of work.

I am banking on the guy being oblivious to his own feelings for me, so I’m not too worried.

Next is setting the stage. I think Christmas spirit romance is the vibe to go with in this case. I spent any downtime I had today curating a Christmas love songs playlist and set it to play softly in the background. I make sure the lights to my Christmas tree are on and dim the main lights just enough to give the room a glow. I bought a special pie from Mila Delaford. Given who her brother is, and her circle of friends, apparently her maternity leave from her bakery has been filled with recipes for the football lifestyle. This pie has a light crust, isn’t too sweet, and has some extra protein. Lincoln brought me a slice after they had Thanksgiving at their house, and I couldn’t deny its deliciousness. (The things I heard about the banana cream pie she brought made me incredibly jealous. It obviously went quickly.) I want to provide a homey atmosphere for Brock to fall in love, and when you’re talking about a guy who’s six-seven, three-hundred pounds and in superb athletic shape, that’s trickier than just making dinner.

I’m setting out the TOK book on the couch when my doorbell rings. My heart flutters, and I take deep breaths as I head toward the door and remind myself I’m playing a long game. Brock will realize his feelings eventually. He’ll keep “messing up” and putting an arm around me or sitting close, and one of those times it’s going to hit him.

“You got this,” I whisper to myself before I open the door. “Hey!” I beam at him cheerfully as I swing it open. “Come in!” I turn from him, pretending not to notice the way his eyes slide over me, and leave the door open. Then I check over my shoulder on the pretense of pointing to the book and the couch to see if he’s checking me out.

Yup. He hasn’t said a word since he stepped inside, and the door is still standing open. We’re calling this outfit a success.

“I got a pumpkin pie from Mila,” I say when I get to the counter and turn to look at him. He quickly shuffles all the way in and shuts the door behind him, still blinking at me. “Like the one she brought to Thanksgiving.”

“Oh?” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. I force myself not to gloat over the detached way his voice sounds, as though he’s coming back from a daydream. I’ve had a few of those myself, concerning him, so I won’t judge him too much. Just for being a doofus when it comes to his own feelings. “That sounds great.”

“Should we have a slice now or wait for a bit?” I grab dessert plates from the cabinet and turn to set them on the island to find him staring again. “Brock?” I ask when a few moments go by without him saying anything.

“Let’s uh, wait for a bit.” He plops down onto the couch. I do a victory fist pump in my head.

I leave the plates on the island and move over to the stove, where I have a couple mugs sitting next to it. “How do you feel about hot apple cider?” I ask as I fill the two mugs. “I’m trying to mix it up from hot chocolate.” Especially since I noticed how little he drank the last time he was here. He doesn’t do caffeine, I’ve discovered, and I bet he doesn’t do a lot of sugar either. But I admire the way he still allows himself a small indulgence now and then despite his strict diet.

“Cider sounds great.” He’s picked up the book, and he plays with the bookmark I put in the other night after we read on the airplane. It came with the swag bag we got for getting tickets into the gathering with Gideon.

I bring the cider in on a tray and set it on the ottoman, pick up Brock’s drink, and hand it to him. Then I take a seat on the couch next to him, crossing my legs to face him. I reach over to grab my cider and lift it up to take a sip. He watches me the whole time.

This is going so much better than I thought. My heart flutters again as I wonder if maybe our trip to New York has already helped Brock realize some things. Whatever the case, the ball is in his hands. And maybe, as a lineman, that’s tough for him because he’s not used to it.

“So, there’s something I need to ask you before we start reading,” I say after I put my mug down. “I need a favor.”

Brock’s expression is unreadable, but everything has gone so well so far, I don’t worry too much. “You know I’ll do whatever,” he says.

I hold up a hand. On the off chance I’ve misread everything, I want to give him an out. Or at least the chance to keep things status quo until he figures out his feelings. “I know, but there’s no pressure. And you’re probably going to think I’m crazy.”

Brock relaxes for the first time since he came into the apartment. He quirks an eyebrow. “Can anything get more crazy than Tuesday?”

“This? Maybe. I need you to go with me to the Westcott’s Christmas Party, but you can totally say no.”

He furrows his brows, but his eyes dance. “You need me to, but I shouldn’t feel pressured to?”

“Absolutely.”

He tilts his head. “Forgive me, but you’re giving me mixed signals.”

I’d panic about everything, except his expression is playful. This is like we were before I kissed him, and that means he’s no longer overthinking everything he says to me. It could be because I stopped worrying so much, since I’m determined to make him admit his feelings. I’m still betting it’s more though.

“I’m going to put the ring back. When we go to the Westcott’s.” I pick up my mug again and take another sip while I wait for his reaction.

His eyes widen. “That’s it? That’s the solution?” He leans toward me. “Did you figure out how she got it?”

I shake my head. “No, but Mrs. Westcott is terrorizing my parents’ neighborhood, and I can’t sit back anymore when I have it. Besides, their daughter is getting married on New Year’s. They deserve to have the ring. I can’t turn it in to the police because I don’t know what will happen, but if it shows back up at the Westcott’s house, they’ll never link it back to Aunt Shannon.”

He purses his lips, drawing my attention to them, but he speaks before I can get too lost in thoughts about them. “But they could trace it back to you.”

I’ve thought about that. I don’t think there will be a way unless I’m caught with the ring in my possession. “I’ll wear gloves.”

A surprised laugh escapes him. “Of course I’ll come with you, Pres. But what are you going to do? Crack the safe and slip it back in?”

I tip my head at him, feigning confusion. “Oh, is that hard?”

He eyes me but then grins. “Presley.”

“I’ll wrap it up like a gift. Westcotts have this huge tree in the middle of the room. We’ll put it under the tree and bam! Christmas miracle.”

“So you’re the one Thornridge calls when he’s planning Alden’s heists,” Brock deadpans.

I smack him on the shoulder and force myself to quickly pull my hand back from his muscled shoulder instead of caressing him the way I’d like to. “Simple is always best.”

He studies me for a long time. “If you get caught, it’s going to look bad. We could go to the police now. I’ll back up your story.”

I put my hand back on his arm, and not just because I want to feel the muscles again. This is allowed anyway. He put my hand here on Tuesday, so it’s an allowed action, even if I weren’t trying to prove a point.

“You weren’t here when I opened the box. And besides, they’ll say that’s where I hid it after I stole it or something. I’m not going to get caught, Brock. There will be over a hundred people there. Besides, I’ll have you as a distraction.”

He looks down at my hand. I don’t remove it immediately, and after a second, he puts his large, warm hand over mine. “So you do ‘need’ me,” he says softly. I’d be a puddle at his sexy voice, but his eyes are dancing with mischief.

“I told you I did.”

We stare at each other for another long moment before he draws back. “All right, Alden. Let’s do this. ”

The way he’s looking at me, the fluttering heart has vanished. It’s thumping hard in my chest, and there’s a good chance Brock can hear it. It feels like the tables have turned somehow, even though he’s sitting with his back in the corner of the couch so he can face me, not touching me, but I still feel him like he’s right up in my face.

I tap a finger on the book, even though keeping it together while he reads to me is going to be one of the most difficult things I do today. “Your turn to read.”

Eli Dash has renamed this group “Former Best Friends Club.”

Lincoln:

Hurley: Did your wife steal your phone?

Eli: No. Why?

Hurley:

Eli: Brock, I added my BIL, Landon.

Brock: Hey Landon.

Landon:

Landon: Eli, if you say anything about “friendzone to endzone,” we will kick you out of the group.

Eli: Bro. I’m the founder.

Lincoln: Won’t stop us.

Brock: I might let a few guys through on Sunday if you say that.

Lincoln:

Hurley:

Landon:

Eli: Brock, have you figured out your grand gesture yet?

Brock: Pretty sure Presley just handed it to me on a silver platter.