Chapter 8
Stupid Brock Hart and his bossy-fucker ways.
Why couldn’t he let them both ride the waves of post-orgasmic bliss just a touch longer before he went ordering her around?
She’d divulged her pregnancy, gone on light duty—what more did he want from her?
She was still a bloody cop and determined to be a good one, too!
Part of being a good cop was following a lead, an instinct, and like a dog with a bone, seeing if that lead went anywhere.
And after the way Myles had behaved in the breakroom, tearing open her uniform and fondling her and threatening her, there was no way in hell that was his first offense.
No.
The man probably had a thick file in HR full of complaints. She just needed to find it.
After changing into pajama pants, Krista tossed on her pissed-off cop face and joined Brock for dinner in the living room.
He politely changed the channel from the news to the Home and Garden channel when she walked in.
A bowl of steaming veggies and chicken over rice sat on the leather ottoman waiting for her.
She didn’t say anything to him but simply picked up the bowl and dove in.
Between skipping lunch so she could investigate Myles more and that bit of aerobics in the kitchen, she was starving.
Penelope jumped up into Brock’s lap where he sat in his La-Z-Boy, and he began mindlessly petting her until an appreciative purr joined the cacophony of evening sounds.
Krista watched him quietly—this bigger-than-life man, the father of her child, her roommate who shared her bed (on occasion), a man she still knew absolutely nothing about.
And yet, as the weeks ticked by and she saw glimpses, microscopic fragments of the person who was buried deep down and hidden behind those impenetrable walls and even more impenetrable chest, she began to feel a stirring of something deep in her belly.
And she didn’t think it was just gas or the possible flutterings of their little one-night-stand miracle.
Only whenever she addressed it, asked him anything about himself, brought up the big differences in his personality, he would shut down.
Just like he had in the kitchen. He’d shown her such tenderness on the stairs, shown her a glimpse into the heart of Brock Hart, but when she brought it up, he shut down, shut her up and fucked her until she could barely walk.
Then, when the ecstasy dissipated, he had the mask back up, the bossy-fucker mask, and he was telling her what to do.
She just didn’t get it. Was she really no more than a pregnant fuck buddy?
“What?” he said gruffly, not bothering to look at her but knowing she was looking at him. The mask was on, the walls were up, and any thoughts she may have had about trying to get to know him more quickly dissolved.
She hid her disappointment and flashed him a big, sexy grin. Well, at least she could have on-demand orgasms. “You wanna have a shower?”
Taking great care not to piss off Penelope, he gently placed her on a pillow and then set his empty bowl on the coffee table, standing up and heading toward the bathroom, removing his shirt as he went. “Lucky for you, woman, I can get it up more than once a day. Come on!”
She giggled as she skipped after him, peeling off her clothes and leaving them like a trail of breadcrumbs down the hallway.
She’d find out more about him tomorrow.