Chapter 2
2
Brock
I trail off, hoping the beautiful woman who just waltzed over and locked lips with me will take the hint and offer her name.
"Schapelle," she stammers then clears her throat. "Schapelle Moore."
I find myself smiling again. Twice in one day. Just set a new record. "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Schapelle ."
She fidgets as she tries to get comfortable on the stool, and I can see her mind working overtime, like she's trying to put the pieces of the last few minutes together in her mind.
Her long, glossy brown hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders. Her face is both striking and delicate—high cheekbones, strawberry-red lips, and the bluest eyes I've ever seen.
She's wearing an emerald dress that hugs her figure and amplifies the brilliance of her eyes. A delicate gold necklace rests just above the neckline, catching the light with every subtle movement she makes.
Hands down, she's the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on. And a darn good kisser to boot.
She remains quiet. I'm not great at making small talk at the best of times, much less when in the company of an absolute goddess, so I keep my mouth shut for a while, too.
"Do you need a drin—" I begin, at the exact moment she turns to me. "I just need a minu?—"
"Of course," I say. "Take all the time you need."
I'm more than happy to oblige.
My first venture out into a social setting in years, and the very first thing that happens to me is a beautiful woman kisses me. My brothers will get a kick out of this, especially since my mission tonight is to find a woman.
Well, not so much a woman as a wife. If I want to inherit fifty-million dollars from my grandfather in accordance with the conditions laid out in his will, that is.
My three younger brothers are covered. They're all married. One happily—Farrow; one unhappily—Malik; and one to his best friend—Culver.
I'm the lone holdout. Despite our grandfather giving me more time to find a wife than my brothers, I've left it to the very last minute. After finishing my second tour overseas, I bought a small cabin here in the mountains of Cedar Crest Hollow and withdrew from the world, haunted by what happened on that last deployment.
But I'm not going to find a wife holed up in my cabin. And with time ticking—I have exactly two weeks left to get married as per the clause in my grandfather's will, otherwise I lose my inheritance—I've put it off for as long as I can. So I accepted my friend Reece's invitation to his and Sabra's engagement party.
What's the worst thing that can happen? I thought to myself.
I glance over at Schapelle. Her demeanor has shifted. Gone is the confident woman who approached without hesitation and left me breathless. A deep frown mars her otherwise smooth forehead, and she's twisting a strand of hair around her fingers, lost in her own thoughts.
I have no idea who she is or why she's going around kissing men she doesn't know, but an unfamiliar surge of protectiveness flares within me. Normally, I'm a mind-your-own-business guy. I never pry into people's lives, and I don't like people sticking their noses into mine. But there's a pull in my gut that makes me want to know more about her.
"Can I get you a drink?" I ask again, hoping enough time has passed.
"No, thank you." She drops her gaze to her stomach. "I, uh, can't drink at the moment."
"Right." I do everything I can to mask my reaction and keep my voice as level as possible. She's pregnant. O-kay. The surprises keep coming with this one. "Water, then?"
"Actually, that'd be great. Sparkling please."
I flag down the bartender and place the order. When it arrives, I slide the glass filled with ice cubes and the bottle of San Pellegrino over to Schapelle and watch as she fills it with her long, delicate fingers.
I lift my whiskey neat, pause briefly, then hedge. "To memorable first encounters."
She looks up at me and manages a small smile. "It's memorable all right," she says, clinking her glass against mine.
A few more beats pass. "Tell me to mind my own business and I will, but why did you?—"
"Kiss a guy I don't know?" she finishes for me.
"Yeah." My skin prickles. I can't shake wanting to know what's going on with her, but it's not in my nature to invade someone's personal business. "If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine."
She locks those bright-blue eyes on me, weighing up whether to tell me or not. I'm convinced she's going to tell me to buzz off, when instead, she sags forward and fills me in on the whole story.
About falling pregnant unexpectedly. About how her blockhead ex Owen reacted to it. About how Sabra's friend Magnus came up with an idea to get back at said ex-blockhead. About how since she's rash and impulsive, she went along with it.
"Sabra said I'd recognize Magnus instantly since he'd be the tallest man in the…"
Her eyes swing to my right. I turn over my shoulder and follow her gaze. Sure enough, a guy closing in on seven feet enters.
I turn back to Schapelle. "There's your guy." I choke on the words and cough awkwardly.
"Yeah, I guess he is. Was . I don't even know anymore." She blows out a breath and stares at her glass like she wishes it was filled with something stronger than water, then turns to me. "I'm so sorry for…all of this."
"For all of what?"
"For the out-of-the-blue kiss. And for the trauma dump. I can't even imagine what you must think of me right now."
She's right. She probably can't. Because I am completely mesmerized by her. My heart races, the same way it used to after a round of ammo can lifts. But this is way, way more pleasurable. I may be sorely out of practice with women, but even I know revealing any of this would be coming on way too strong.
"It's fine," I assure her. "You're fine."
She straightens. "Enough about me. Assuming you're not just sitting here to be polite to the crazy pregnant lady, tell me something about yourself. Did I hear right that you haven't left your cabin in a while?"
Did I let that slip? I must've. That's not like me. "Uh, yeah."
"Is there a story behind that?"
I drain the rest of my whiskey. "There is."
She scans me with those piercing eyes. "Are you a Vet?"
"I am. How did you guess?"
"Military brat," she answers. "My dad was a logistics officer. We bounced around bases all over the U.S.—Virginia, Texas, North Carolina. I have a sixth sense for spotting military, or former military, personnel."
The pride in her voice settles me. I don't like talking about my service, especially not with strangers, but sitting next to her fills me with a sense of calm I can't explain.
I check to make sure she still has water before ordering myself a double neat. The whiskey burns as it slides down.
I open up about my two deployments. Both were in the Middle East. The first was handling security operations. My breath hitches when I talk about running convoys and coordinating logistics on the second tour, and I hope she doesn't notice. "Both were tough, but I did my job and got through it," I say, trying to shake off the heaviness in my chest. I've let my guard down, revealing more than I should have.
She doesn't reply with the standard, 'Thank you for your service.' In fact, she doesn't say anything at all. Instead, she runs her hand up and down my forearm before giving it a firm squeeze. And somehow, that small gesture says more than words ever could.
"You from around here?" she asks, pulling her hand away.
I nod. "Got a small cabin just outside of Cedar Creek Hollow. You?"
"My parents live here, and I'm staying with them while I figure…" She looks down and runs her fingers across her stomach. "…things out."
I'm curious about her pregnancy, and even though I'm not normally a violent person, I'd like her to point out her scumbag ex so I can acquaint him intimately with my fist for treating her the way he has. But instead, I settle for, "Where's home usually?"
Her lips stretch, but the attempt at a smile doesn't reach those magnetic blue eyes. "I don't have a base. Moving from place to place must be in my blood. Dad left the military, and he and Mom have settled down. So have my sisters. But I've never stopped." She lets out a sigh. "I used to love the thrill of exploring new places, but in the past few years it's become…exhausting. And after my last book tour, where I experienced a rough few weeks of morning sickness, which has thankfully stopped, I am well and truly over it."
"You're an author?"
"I am."
She just keeps on getting more and more intriguing.
I ask her about her work and hang on every word as she tells me about the romcoms she writes with '90s throwback vibes—because she's obsessed with all things '90s—under the pseudonym Lori Connors.
That leads to a discussion about her favorite '90s TV show, Dawson's Creek , which she's watched beginning to end, "At least ten times."
She asks me about my cabin and listens as I tell her about all the work I've been doing to it.
"The cabin was a good price for a reason," I begin.
"A fixer-upper?"
"Big time. The place hadn't been updated since the '90s." I pause. "The 1890s."
She laughs like I hoped she would, and it's light and melodic and hits a spot deep in my chest. A spot buried so deep I'd almost forgotten it existed.
I try to play it off and act naturally for the rest of the evening as we discuss our mutual love of hiking and all things nature. She quizzes me on what veggies I'm planting that could withstand the approaching California mountain winter. (For the record, spinach, carrots, and brussel sprouts.) She asks about my restoration work, and I probably bore her with talk of replacing roof shingles and building a deck. Then she insists I have to binge watch Dawson's Creek and nearly falls off her stool when I tell her I don't own a TV.
Or a computer.
Or even a tablet.
Time flies, and I'm sure there's still an engagement party going on around us, but I'm enjoying the bubble we've created too much to care about anything or anyone that isn't her.
"Oh, shoot." Schapelle peers over my shoulder. "Sabra and Reece. I haven't even said hello to them yet."
"Neither have I."
"I should probably go do that," she says, getting up slowly. There's a hesitancy to her words and the way she's moving that makes me think she's leaving more out of obligation than because she wants to.
Or maybe I've had one too many whiskeys and am imagining things. Because what could a charming, accomplished, smart, beautiful woman like Schapelle possibly see in a broken shell of a man like me?
I can't think of the last time I enjoyed being around someone this much, and I don't want her to go. So I take a deep breath, look square into those sky-blue eyes, and say the only thing I can think of to get her to stay.
"Schapelle…will you marry me?"