Chapter Sixty-Three
Brock
I never had women in my house.
Save for my coworkers’ wives and Marg or friends, I didn’t invite women into my space.
Not because I didn’t want them to see it, but because it felt like a kind of sacred space to me, a place where I finally started to put my life back together, where I hoped to have a future one day.
It felt wrong to invite temporary people into that space.
Which had to be the only reason I was so uncharacteristically nervous about Miranda being there.
One could rationalize that it was nerve-racking because Miranda was someone with the kind of wealth that meant her apartment in the city was larger than my house in the suburbs.
I didn’t have priceless sculptures or vases. My art was bought off the wall at various coffee shops I’d been to across the country that featured pieces from local artists.
I didn’t have an interior decorator to show me what colors would work best, or what kind of furniture went with the house style.
In fact, I spent years learning how to renovate the place myself. If you looked closely, ninety percent of the books on the shelves flanking my fireplace were books on refinishing floors, building cabinets, doing your own brickwork.
Having that kind of project to focus on had made the transition for hiding in the woods, drinking too much, disassociating in front of the TV, just trying to do whatever it took to keep my mind from going to dark places.
It had been therapeutic. Like some part of me was working on myself as I worked on the house.
Between that, and gaining the purpose that having work again brought, I finally shook off all that shit that had been keeping me down for years, and found some peace and joy again.
It was why I was feeling so sensitive about it, why I’d made the comment about needing to get a dog. Because some part of me was more worried than I should have been about what she thought of the space.
I led her through the living room, the kitchen slash dining space, the small study in the back, then up the back staircase to the three bedrooms before heading back down to lead her onto the porch that overlooked the backyard.
“Wow,” she said, exhaling hard as she looked around.
It wasn’t a huge space. Not many people in Navesink Bank had big yards, save for the rich people in the fancier areas. But I’d busted my ass to make it feel bigger. And private, despite having neighbors.
There was a stockade fence all around the backyard with mature trees and some pretty extensive, but not overly fussy, landscaping.
There was a hammock hanging between trees, a fire pit with Adirondack chairs, and a grilling and picnic section.
“It almost makes you want to take off your shoes and sink your feet in,” she said.
“Go ahead then,” I invited.
“I said almost,” she said, shooting me a smirk over her shoulder. “I really like your house. It feels very warm and inviting. I can imagine curling up in front of the fireplace when it’s snowing outside with a cup of coffee and some music playing.”
“That’s exactly what I was going for. Cozy winter vibes inside, and lazy, relaxing summer vibes out here.”
“Well, you nailed it. If your career as a private investigator ever becomes unfulfilling, you could fall back on an interior decorating career.”
“Always good to have options,” I agreed. “Why don’t you come and make yourself comfortable while I pack a few things?” I invited.
“Do you mind if I make coffee?” she asked, absentmindedly running her hands over the countertop in the island.
And she just looked so… right there.
I could see her there, making her coffee or tea, ordering in takeout since she didn’t seem like she cooked much, maybe occasionally glancing over at her laptop on the dining table, but not feeling quite so pulled to reach for it anymore.
“Help yourself. Might want to check the date on the creamer, though,” I said as I turned back. “I haven’t been here to keep an eye on it,” I added before making my way up the stairs to the second floor.
I packed like I would for both work and a world-tour affair with a wealthy woman.
So there were jeans and tees and henleys, but also slacks and a button-up, and I went ahead and even rolled up my suit, tossing a bottle of wrinkle release in the bag for good measure.
Which meant I had the normal shoes on my feet, a pair of loafers, and a set of dress shoes as well.
From there, I grabbed my smaller bag, tossing in a razor, shave gel, some cologne, body wash, and some hair product just in case, even though I kept it relatively short.
I didn’t need a toothbrush or paste since I’d stolen the ones in the guest bathroom drawer. She had an impressive stock of guest products considering she said she didn’t typically have guests over.
Preparedness seemed to be a hobby of hers. She needed everything to be just right in case anyone did need to stay over sometime. I’d bet she had it in her—or Cam’s—calendar to rotate that shit out every so often so nothing went past its expiration date.
I was reasonably sure there was toothpaste in my guest bathroom. Whether it was still any good or not was up for debate.
I heard her heels on the steps, prompting me to move out of the bathroom just as she was moving into the doorway of my room.
“I brought you a coffee,” she said, giving me a smile that, for her—a woman who typically portrayed herself as a bulletproof kind of confident—seemed almost shy.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” I said, moving forward toward her, watching as something flickered across her eyes as I spoke.
She liked the endearments. Whether she would admit that or not.
She liked me whether she was willing to admit that or not as well.
I probably shouldn’t have delighted in that as much as I did.
But after hearing her make herself come in the bath while I was already standing there with my cock in my hand because I couldn’t stop thinking about her in said bath, yeah, you could say my interest had only gotten more and more intense.
I needed to get a grip.
It didn’t seem like this case was going to be as open and shut as a lot of ours were. And I couldn’t be fucking a client while I was still working for her.
It really shouldn’t have been so hard to resist the pull.
I’d had clients practically throw themselves at me on more than one occasion. It had always been a hard line that I never struggled not to cross that I couldn’t get involved with them until after the cases were closed.
As much as Sawyer and Tig, and damn near everyone else in my life, liked to dig at me about my women troubles, I did have some self-control. And I didn’t struggle with holding onto it when I needed to.
But with her standing there in my doorway, looking like she looked, smelling like she smelled, giving me the soft eyes?
It was taking every bit of control I had in me not to put the coffee on my dresser, grab her, and toss her on the bed, then cover her body with my own.
My cock was stiffening just thinking about the possibility.
“Where did you get this coffee?” she asked as I took the mug from her hands, careful to avoid her fingers because I swear to fuck, I was pretty sure just a brush would be my undoing right then.
“She’s Bean Around,” I told her as I took a sip.
“Yeah, it says that on the bag, but I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s a local coffee shop. They have their own special blend.
It’s what keeps people lining up halfway down the block on busy days.
And why some of us pay a small fortune to buy the beans, so we can make it at home when we don’t feel like waiting on line.
We can hit it up on our way out of town if you want. ”
“Absolutely,” she said, no hesitation. “I think I need to buy about ten bags to keep at my place. How is packing?” she asked, moving into my room, going over toward my bags.
“You are prepared for everything,” she declared after looking at my clothes, then zipping the bag herself and setting it on the floor so she could sit off the edge of the bed.
“You know that thing I keep insisting about my shoes being fine?”
“Lies?” I asked, smiling at her as she flexed her feet inside the shoes, but was too stubborn to slip them off.
“Totally. I mean, don’t get me wrong, shoes that cost eight-hundred dollars are definitely more comfortable than the ones I used to get on a BOGO deal on the shelf at Payless, but they still hurt after a while.”
“Why do you insist on wearing them even outside of work then?” I asked, even though some part of me was cataloging what she’d just said. What she’d just admitted to, even though I don’t think she’d meant to.
It was exactly what I’d been suspecting.
That she’d come from much more humble beginnings.
Buy One, Get One deals at Payless was not something anyone who’d grown up rich would ever cop to even knowing about.
In fact, many of the wealthy women I’d known in my life would be deliberately dense about “commoner” stores.
Even if they technically did know about them, they would never cop to that because they would think that even having that knowledge made them seem poorer themselves.
“I think it started off as a status symbol, honestly,” she told me, shrugging.
“Then it was really clear that some men in business have a real issue with women in business still. Especially those of us who are more successful than they are. And they look down on you. Quite literally, in some circumstances. So I always want to be as tall, or taller, than them.”
“It’s why you go for the handshake first too,” I said, thinking back to her meeting Sawyer.
“Exactly. But it’s also just a preference now.
With the shoes. They make me feel put together.
I’d feel naked without them on if I were in a work situation.
Or,” she went on, sensing my objection about to come, “when I am in a situation where I might be meeting people for the first time. Like Sawyer and Tig.”