He rolled his eyes. “Don’t get cheesy on me.”
I got back into the driver seat of the Lexus and replied, “Like you don’t love it, girls fawning over you. Please, it gets you off.”
His lips quipped. “You get me off.”
My cheeks betrayed me by going hot. Before I could open my mouth and embarrass myself more, I shut the car door and put the thing into drive. Brock Taylor always had to have the last word, a trait I found so damn irritating… like the man himself.
* * *
“I can’t live in your room,” I argued as Brock dropped my duffel bag in the middle of his room, after insisting he carry it inside. “There are like a dozen other rooms in this house. Surely one of them is a guest room.” I consented to stay the weekend. Come Monday, I would have to figure my shit out.
“We have four. You’re still staying in my room,” he stated flatly.
“Has anyone told you how insufferable you are?” I huffed, annoyance flaring through me.
Brock peered at me from behind thick lashes, eyes twinkling. “Almost daily.”
Brock and I would drive each other mad after a weekend in the same room. “And what will your parents think about you keeping a girl in your room?”
He moved to the window and opened it, letting in the late October breezes. Traces of burning leaves and pine filtered into the room. “My parents are gone for another week.”
“Why do rich kids always have parents who are never home?” I mumbled, not expecting a response. I sank onto his unmade bed, sheets still rumpled from our sleep.
Brock shrugged. “Luck of the gene pool. Or cursed. Depends on your viewpoint.”
So perhaps he didn’t enjoy the freedom as much as he led on? “Wish Angie would become absent now that she’s living her dream married to a wealthy asshole.”
Brock made a disparaging sound. “You might just get your wish, but then that leaves you with Carter.”
A shiver of revulsion went through me. “True.” I laid my hands over my knees to keep them from bouncing. “What about the staff? Won’t they tell your parents you have a girl staying here?”
He pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen. “That’s the thing about being raised by the help; they care about you more than your own parents. They won’t say anything,” he assured, his fingers tapping on his phone in what I assumed was a text.
I was about to ask who he was messaging when my phone buzzed. Reaching into my back pocket, I stared at the name scrolling across the banner. Angie. Not Mom or Mother. Just Angie, the name she absolutely hated to be called. I declined the call.
A few minutes later, my phone buzzed again, and I scowled at the screen.
“Who keeps calling you? Carter?” Brock’s expression said he’d like to go through the phone and rip Carter into his room. Brock would love the chance to get my stepbrother alone. And this time Carter might not make it to the hospital but leave in a body bag.
I stared at the flashing screen. “No, worse. My crazy-ass-kidnapping mother. She is due home tomorrow from Steven’s business trip.”
Brock walked over and sat beside me. “You need to tell her you won’t be home.”
I shot him a narrowed glare. “Like ever?”
“Will she go for that?” He was serious.
I shook my head. “Definitely not. But really, what can she do about it? I’ll be eighteen soon.”
“Stall her for as long as possible. And don’t say anything about Grayson.” He pinned me with a hard look meant to intimidate, but it just fell short of the mark for me.
“Easier said than done.” She had called four times in the last hour. Sighing, I hit the accept button on my phone, knowing I was going to regret this. “Angie,” I said dryly after putting the phone on speaker.
“Josephine. Do you know how many times I’ve called you?” Annoyed, her voice shrilled octaves higher than it needed to be as it blared out of the speaker.
“My phone died.”
“It’s irresponsible to not keep your phone properly charged. What if something happened to you? What if you were lost in the woods and the police needed to ping your phone?” she ranted.