Chapter 9
9
Schapelle
"Okay, okay," I mutter to myself, madly flicking through a pile of papers because I'm old school and still like to write down my notes with a pen before converting my ideas into my laptop.
"So, I've got his backstory sorted out, hers is still a little vague. I need to re-read a few sections of the previous book to ensure plot line continuation is consistent," I mutter to myself. "Oh, and that reminds me, what secondary characters do I want to introduce in this installment?"
Gah, writing my first series of related books is so much harder than writing stand-alones. Everything needs to be connected, continuing plotlines need to make sense and flow, and you have the added burden of keeping track of all the secondary characters.
My mind is swimming in details.
I'm so grateful for the peace and quiet I have here. Living with my parents was starting to drive me nuts. Mom doesn't understand the concept of a closed door meaning please do not disturb , and Dad would give gorillas in the wild a run for their money when it comes to making noise the way he stomps about the house.
I scoop up a handful of nuts and dried fruit and munch down on them noisily. They make my mouth go dry, so I wash them down with some chilled water.
Wait a minute.
I clearly remember draining the last of my water bottle because I had to get up and use the bathroom. I did that, but forgot to get a refill when I came back.
I look up.
Brock is placing the rafters on top of the support beams out on the deck. I would've thought putting up a pergola would require at least two people, but nope, he's been doing it all on his own.
I glance back at the table. Come to think of it, I didn't get the snacks, either. Or the cup of steaming hot decaf.
Oh.
My.
Goodness.
Not only have I taken over his dining nook, he's also been keeping me fed and hydrated all this time, and I haven't even noticed, much less said thank you.
Not even once. Yikes.
I take a break from my fictional romance world to focus on the pieces of the puzzle that is Brock Palladino.
There are the things about the man I've married and am roommates with that I've learned these past two weeks.
He's kind and considerate, like insisting on resting my feet on his lap and treating me to heavenly foot rubs every night. He's a great cook, even if he prefaces each nightly meal with, "Nonna would do it better." He's handy and capable and self-reliant, no mama's boy here.
And he's sweet to indulge me in my love of Dawson's Creek , watching it with me every night. I doubt he'll ever be a superfan, but I hope he's enjoying it a little.
And then there are the things I still haven't figured out.
The story behind the bronze statue on the mantle that belonged —past tense, noted—to a friend.
His hesitation when I first asked him to play the guitar a few nights ago.
Why he's isolated himself from the world. I have a feeling it's related to his second deployment, and it could possibly be some form of PTSD. But growing up in a military family has made me acutely aware of the nuanced issues veterans face, so I don't want to jump to any conclusions.
And then there's the thing I'm most unsure of—how does he feel about me ?
I've blown into his life out of nowhere and have taken over his space and disrupted his life. Is he simply being polite and putting up with me, secretly counting down the days until I'm gone and he can finally get some peace and quiet back, not to mention his check for fifty million dollars?
My heart sinks that that's all this could be, because it feels like there is something real between us.
Or is that my author brain playing tricks on me?
It's hard to differentiate sometimes. I have a history of rushing into things, and what could be more rushed than marrying a guy you've only met once and moving into his cabin? That kind of rash thoughtlessness has led me to heartbreak before, seeing only what I want to see in men, without taking the time to read the signs that only become clear to me in hindsight.
But with Brock, the signs really are all good. It's a forest of green flags.
But aren't you meant to be done with men?
Oh, yeah. That.
Shoot.
With a sigh, I push to my feet and head toward the deck.
I slide open the glass door and zip up my hoodie when the crisp air hits me. Brock's worn, yellow plaid flannel shirt fits snugly over his broad frame, and a smile sprouts on his lips when he sees me.
I move toward him. "Hey."
He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. "Hey."
"Thank you."
"What for?"
"For keeping me stocked up with water and snacks this whole time. I'm so sorry I haven't noticed before now."
"You were in your zone. I hope I didn't disturb you."
My heart swells. None of my exes were ever this considerate. In fact, most were low-key jealous of my success, and that in some instances, I made more money than they did. One of them even said he felt like he was competing for attention with my writing.
And here's Brock, not only supporting me, but doing it without me even having to ask for it.
"That's very sweet and thoughtful of you. I appreciate it."
I take in his face—his warm eyes, his strong nose, those lips that are both gentle yet firm to the touch—and I'm suddenly overcome by a desperate need to feel those lips on mine again. Despite knowing it's probably a bad idea, my feet shuffle toward him, my hand lifts to his shoulder, my toes push me off the floor.
Our lips meet, and his hand presses into the small of my back. The tender warmth of his mouth and the secure hold of his grip sends yummy tendrils of pleasure spiraling in every direction throughout my body.
His kiss is slow and reassuring, making me feel safe and wanted. There's no rush, his mouth moving with purpose and the confidence of a man who knows how to treat a woman properly.
I finally lower, pulling my lips gently away from his.
"What was that for?" he asks, grinning as he holds me in place.
I stare up into his kind, expressive eyes. "You didn't say you're welcome ."
"Huh?"
"When I said thank you , you didn't say you're welcome ."
"I see." His grin grows into a smile. "In that case, you'll never hear me say you're welcome ever again."