Last time I came over here, Bryce was stinking drunk on tequila after having nearly thrown me out of the place for having sex with him without a condom.
Yet here I am. Unable to stay away from him. Coming when he calls.
He did say please.
Twice.
I raise my fist to knock on the door.
A tail-wagging Sammy smiles—that tongue-hanging doggy smile—at me through the window next to the door.
“Hey, girl,” I say through the glass.
Then I jerk when the door opens before me.
Brock stands there in nothing but jeans again. No shirt, bare feet, hair a mess.
I inhale.
Nope. No tequila on his breath or oozing out his pores. I don’t smell any alcohol at all.
“You all right?” I ask.
He threads his fingers through his disheveled hair. “Come in. Please.”
The third please.
Something’s definitely wrong.
“Thanks for coming,” he says.
“What do you need, Brock?”
“I think you know.”
“Yeah, I think I know too. But I’m starving. I need something to eat.”
I expect him to grab me and smash our mouths together, but he doesn’t. Instead he takes my hand and leads me through the foyer into the big country kitchen in the back.
“No filets mignons tonight,” he says. “I didn’t have time to plan.”
“That’s fine. What are we having?”
“Burgers.”
“With…”
“How should I fucking know? A salad maybe?”
I roll my eyes, walk to his refrigerator, and open it. “What do you plan to make a salad with? Shredded cheese?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have any green vegetables, Brock? There’s nothing in the refrigerator.”
“I’ve had my mind on other shit.”
“So have I, but I do manage to get my greens.” I close the refrigerator door and walk to his pantry. “You’ve got some potatoes in here. We can make oven-baked fries.”