26 - Lauren
Lauren
“Now this is an unexpected sight,” I said with a giggle as Brock approached me with a bouquet of flowers.
“You’re surprised that I’d show up with flowers on our first official date?” he asked, sounding kind of offended.
I felt my cheeks heat up at how blunt he was about this being a date. No games, just straight up honesty.
“No,” I said, looking him up and down and biting my lip to prevent further giggling. “I actually meant the outfit.”
He looked down in assessment of himself now, confused.
I’d only seen Brock thus far in his working clothes, naked, or in black tie.
It was odd seeing him in “regular people” clothes—a plain T-shirt, dark denim jeans and a rugged jacket.
But the most surprising part of his outfit wasn’t the clothing, but the hat on his head.
It was a classic ‘47 brand clean-up cap in Cubs royal blue with the iconic red “C” stamped on the front. It was his only concession to fanaticism, but even in a small dose like this, seeing him actually wearing something like that was both amusing and endlessly endearing.
I reached up and gently thumped the visor. “I mean this. Who would’ve thought Brock Lawson was a fanboy?”
He grunted. “I’m not a fanboy. I just have loyalty to my team.”
“So a fanboy.”
“Drop the ‘boy’.”
“Still a fan,” I teased, standing up on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.”
He cleared his throat and gave me a tight nod, suddenly almost coy. Or no, that wasn’t it. Knowing Brock, I guessed he just wanted to make sure this went well, being the first official date and all. It didn’t matter that we’d already slept together or had that moment around my kitchen counter.
Of course he would still want this to go well.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
“Thank you,” I answered. “You clean up pretty nicely yourself.”
We walked together to his 70s-something Chevy, and even though I knew very little about the details when it came to makes and models of cars, I could tell when one was really well taken care of.
“Put this together yourself?” I asked as I climbed into the passenger seat while he held the door open.
“Not from scratch, no,” he answered. “I just rebuilt the engine.”
“Of course you did,” I said. “It must be a head-turner on Lake Shore Drive.”
“She is,” he admitted, then shut the door and walked around to the driver’s seat.
“Alright, so, I should probably get all my questions out now so that I don’t bother you with them during the game,” I said decisively.
“It wouldn’t be a bother,” Brock said. “But go ahead.”
“Why the Cubs?” I asked.
Now he did look like he was struggling to hide his smile. “How much time do you have?”
“The entire ride to Wrigley,” I said.
“I won’t torture you like that,” he replied, then raised a single shoulder. “They were my father’s team.”
“Of course they were.” I said.
“Meaning?” He raised an eyebrow at me.
“Meaning that you’re a legacy man. I figured as much. What I want to know is where it all started? What was the ancient agreement between the cubs and the Lawson family that led to you sitting with that hat today?” I asked.
Brock let out a real laugh this time, the type that crinkled his eyes at the corners.
“Okay, if I’m gonna explain that then you really are going to have to be patient,” he said.
“Hey, I asked. If I regret it that would be on me,” I promised.
He started to explain in that easy but precise way of his and I actually paid attention to every word. Baseball wasn’t my favorite sport but it was important to him and this little window shared more of who he was with me.
We continued to make conversation that drifted in and out of various changing topics until we finally reached Wrigley Field. He opened the door for me again and I hopped out of the truck. It was a great day for a baseball game, with a stretch of clear blue sky above and a warm but not hot sun.
Also perfect weather for the summer dress I was wearing without getting clammy. I noticed Brock’s eyes drift down to rake over my body every now and again. I didn’t hate it.
We found our seats quickly and had hardly sat down before Brock’s disdain for the Brewers became glaringly obvious.
He leaned over to me and said loud enough for me to hear over the growing din of the stadium, “Look at ‘em. They call American Family Field “Wrigley North” because they can’t fill their own seats without us. Makes me sick.”
“Careful, Brock,” I shot back. “If you get any more worked up about their real estate, I’m going to have to start charging you for the “emotional renovation” I’ll have to do on you later.”
His eyes flashed, darting down again to look at the dress. “I think I’d rather go straight to the structural inspection. And trust me—my rates are a lot higher than yours.”
The crowd began to cheer as the game started but even the roar of noise around me couldn’t drown out his words.
I snapped to attention soon enough though, actually finding myself enjoying watching the Cubs dominate the Brewers. Though not as much as Brock, who was actually cheering along with the people around us.
It was such a break from the version of him that had been running things back at the firehouse that I couldn’t help but poke fun during a lull in the action.
“I love how professional you’re being right now,” I teased.
“Professional, huh?” he repeated, then leaned down and planted a kiss right on my lips in front of the stadium.
I looked at him, dazed at his boldness while he just smiled at me before turning his attention back to the field.
Afterwards, he took me to the Navy Pier and bought us ice cream while we strolled along the dock. We continued talking leisurely, sometimes about his family and sometimes about mine.
It came easier now, partly because he was Brock and that made him reliable, but partly because of the lightness that came with being outside of the firehouse.
Yes, it was starting to feel like home, but being confined there while waiting for the permits and organizing the exhibition had made it feel stuffy.
And now, with the last of the permits being approved, it truly felt like a move towards freedom from the weight that had hung over the firehouse ever since renovation had been halted.
We could relax into whatever this was that was blossoming between us. Out here on the pier, Brock wasn’t my foreman and I wasn’t his client. We were just two people getting to know each other a bit better.
“Can we go on the Ferris wheel?” I asked, jerking my head towards the giant revolving ride ahead of us.
“Sure,” Brock said.
We weaved our way through the busy crowd and waited in line until we were finally let on. On the move up, I stared down, watching the fairground shrink. In the small, confined space, the vibe between us that had been on a simmer all day, rolled to a boil that was about to bubble over.
We had fun but it was the connection we shared that was like a spark to tinder. His hand rested on the seat next to me, and just his pinky finger brushed against the exposed skin of my thigh where my dress had ridden up.
I knew that it wasn’t intentional, and yet he didn’t move his hand away.
I didn’t move either, sparks of electricity scattering across my skin at the contact. I turned around only to see him already looking at me. We were almost at the very top of the rotation when our lips met, soft at first and almost playful.
But that didn’t last very long and soon we were grabbing at each other, the simple kiss progressing to a makeout session that was definitely not PG-13. But Brock tasted and felt so good. He was addictive in the best way possible.
He groaned against my mouth, his hand gripping my hip with bruising intensity just as our car passed the highest point of the turn and was slowly making its descent. But instead of stopping, I slipped my hand into his jeans.
“Lauren,” he growled, pulling back and regarding me with darkened eyes. “Lauren, we need to find somewhere private right now. Unless you wanna give the crowd a show they didn’t pay for.”