The Bachelor Auction (The Bachelors of Arizona Book 1) (10 page)

H
e was literally going to get a medal for being an asshole. It wasn’t her fault, but she was the easiest target. Projecting every damn feeling of insecurity and loss onto her just seemed…easier, easier then dealing with it. Seeing her in the kitchen had been a fucking nightmare.

She was pounding the hell out of chicken, for shit’s sake.

Just like his mom.

She looked nothing like his mom—nothing.

And yet, seeing her there made his chest ache and his stomach drop to his knees. And with his brothers home, the house was full again.

It was all too familiar.

With a curse, Brock tossed off the giant comforter, pulled on a pair of sweats, and walked out of the room. He needed whiskey if he was going to have any hope of sleep.

Lots of whiskey.

He’d always prided himself on his control.

Until her.

And the house.

Both of them were grating his very last nerve. Set the table? Seriously? Like his brothers both weren’t completely aware that the last meal they’d had as a family had been shared at that very table.

With a shudder, he quietly pulled the whiskey from the pantry and poured a heavy dose into a coffee cup, then made his way to the living room. Maybe he’d sleep on the couch again.

Maybe he’d get drunk again.

And just maybe, he’d forget all about how good Jane smelled and how beautiful she looked—while cleaning a damn toilet.

Yeah, he was so screwed.

Brock surveyed the room as he took a sip of whiskey. The leather couches were the only new thing in the entire house. Everything else was exactly how he remembered it, from the woodsy smell to the way the wood floors creaked when you walked into the living room.

Another slow sip and he was sinking down onto the couch.

A little squeak erupted from where he tried to sit, and he jumped back up.

“Hey!” Jane’s quick movements were almost impossible to make out in the dark, but her voice? It was clear, smooth, and it sent really irrational feelings straight to his heart. Every muscle in his body tensed.

Because that was what happened when you treated people like shit—people who didn’t deserve it.

His body, aware that things were about to get uncomfortable, braced for impact, while his brain scurried to come up with the right words that would form nice-sounding sentences, sentences that would make things better without going as far as an apology.

Dumbstruck, the only thing he could utter was, “Sorry, didn’t see you there.”

“You didn’t even look.” She tucked her legs under the large afghan and yawned behind her hand. Her dark hair was pulled into a long braid that draped over her right shoulder. A white tank top was visible beneath part of the blanket.

Her expression was tired.

As the fog cleared from his head he managed to sit across from her in his own chair. Buying time, he sipped more whiskey from his coffee cup. “Why are you out here?”

A long pause descended over them like a hot itchy blanket before she answered. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“You know, you can always switch to another room if it’s the bed.”

“It’s not the bed,” she answered in a whisper.

“Or…” He licked his suddenly dry lips. “I think I can find you some NyQuil or something to help.”

She smiled. He could see the white of her teeth as her nose scrunched up in a cute little expression that he really needed to not stare at too long—lest his body take it as an invitation and suddenly launch itself over to the couch.

“Actually,” she said, adjusting herself on the couch again. “It’s more like I keep getting texts from my evil sisters.”

“Turn off your phone.”

“I finally did, but there were things said before the phone went off, things that made it so I couldn’t sleep.”

He wanted to help her—and for some reason, thinking about her problems was a hell of a lot more welcome than thinking about the ghosts floating around the room, staring at him, begging to be dealt with. “Here.” He thrust his mug of whiskey in her direction.

With a frown, she leaned forward, her hands coming into contact with his as they wrapped around the cup. He released the cup into her care, his hands tingling from the sensation of her skin against his.

“What is this?” She sniffed, then made a face.

“Whiskey. Believe me, it helps.”

She sighed. “If you say so.” One small sip and she was coughing, her eyes tearing up as she got off the couch and handed the mug back to him.

His eyes moved from her sock-clad feet up her dangerously long legs, to short black shorts that nearly gave him a view of perfect ass cheeks. Licking his lips, he grabbed the mug and met her pointed gaze. “You didn’t have to get up.”

“Well, you look exhausted. I don’t want you to make any extra effort on my behalf, only to blame me tomorrow for being more tired than you already are.”

He winced. “I deserved that.”

“Totally.” And there was that shy smile again.

Locking eyes on her, Brock sipped from the mug exactly where her lips had been, his tongue swiping across the ceramic mug unnecessarily. Yup. Losing his mind. Or maybe just that desperate for her.

Jane’s eyes hooded before she took a cautious step back and finally grabbed the blanket, resuming her place on the couch. A safe place.

A safe distance away from him.

He wasn’t so sure he liked it.

“Did it help?”

She nodded warily.

“Good.”

Another pause followed. He knew he should say something, possibly apologize, but he wasn’t even sure where to start, or how to go about doing it without laying all of his cards on the table.

So he said nothing.

He was good at that.

Saying nothing when he should say something.

“The blinds,” he finally blurted. “I think I hate the blinds the most.”

“The blinds,” she repeated in a curious tone. “Can I ask why?”

He snorted. “They always used to be open.” He flashed her a smile. “The sunlight streams all the way into the kitchen, and my mom—” His voice cracked, damn it. “She loved getting up early to make coffee and cinnamon rolls. She said that she saw heaven in this room—knew without a shadow of a doubt that it existed, because of the light.”

“That’s beautiful,” Jane whispered.

“She was beautiful.” He glared hard at the stupid wooden blinds. They were objects, stupid objects, but they still held power, made him feel weak. “They were closed the day they died. And they’ve stayed that way ever since. I hate them. They remind me that things are different. They remind me of the day my life changed forever.”

Jane didn’t move.

Nor did she say anything.

He kept talking. “It was an accident.” He stared down at his hands. “Fuck, I hate the word ‘accident’, like that makes the death part easier. A thunderstorm, followed by a plane crash. The twins were little, so Grandfather told me first. He walked into this room and shattered the perfect world I lived in.”

He swallowed and glanced back up at the blinds. “They were closed that day. I knew something was different because they were closed and my mom, she always had them open. Funny, how such a small thing can stay with you.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes before Jane cleared her throat. “My sisters hate me.”

“That can’t be true.” He shifted in his chair so he could see her better. “Why would they hate you?”

“I was born?” She offered with a forced laugh. “I don’t know; they always make comments about how my dad favored me, but I think he just saw a lot of himself in me. I actually cared about what he cared about, and our relationship was different because I was the youngest.” Her voice broke. “Anyway, I may have taken this job without fully telling them where I’d be and how long I’d be gone.”

“So they’re worried about you?”

Jane slumped forward. “No, it’s more like they’re pissed that nobody’s home to do all of their laundry and cooking. The last text I got called me a selfish bitch for refusing to think about their needs.”

Brock frowned so hard his face hurt. “How old are they?”

“Twenty-seven and twenty-five.”

Brock burst out laughing. “Why don’t they just order takeout?”

“Thank you!” Jane threw her hands into the air. “That’s exactly what I said, but apparently looking up the restaurants in their tiny little phones after getting their nails done is, and I quote, ‘super-duper hard.’ Then they started freaking out about having a delivery guy at the door who was probably a college dropout and looking to rob them.”

Brock shook his head. “They sound like a real…treat.”

“You have no idea.”

Guilt slammed into his chest. “Am I right when I say this was supposed to be more like a working vacation?”

She gave him a silent nod.

“Where the tenant wouldn’t be a jackass like your sisters?”

Another nod.

“Shit.”

“It’s not my fault, you know.”

“What isn’t?”

“The blinds.”

He blinked, and then blinked again. “I’m not blaming you for the blinds.”

“You are.” A sad smile spread across her lips. “I don’t know you well enough to know anything about your personality except you’re angry. And whether you’re angry at yourself, me, the house, the blinds, the only person it’s hurting is you.” She shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt to stop trying to control the memories. Maybe in order to get through the grief, you need to face them.”

“Sometimes it’s easier to offer advice than it is to take it.”

Jane visibly tensed. “It’s getting late. I think I’ll head to bed.”

“Jane, wait. I’m so—”

“No you’re not. You’re not sorry. Don’t pretend to know my story, and I won’t pretend to know yours. It wasn’t my place. I apologize.”

The blanket slid off her body into a pool on the floor. She left him alone, staring at the blinds.

They stared back at him.

And he wondered if the blinds were just that: a symbol of the day he’d decided to let his grandfather control his life—solely based on the fear of a twelve-year-old boy who’d felt he had no other choice but to hold on to the man who promised him everything would be okay.

The blinds still stared.

And he stared right back, challenging them—wondering if he pulled them open, what exactly would happen?

Would the sky fall?

Would Grandfather die?

Or would his life be exactly the same?

He stood and walked over to the blinds, lifting a shaky hand to the string that held them closed, and then jerked his hand away.

Some memories were best left buried.

J
ane woke up with a knot in her neck and a dizzying feeling of anticipation. Talking with Brock hadn’t been a wise idea, mainly because she was reminded that underneath all that fear—the very fear she saw in his eyes when he spoke of the past—was a decent guy.

He was in there next to all the yelling and insults.

Well, she’d always loved a good project; finding a new home for a rescue dog, walking an old lady across the road, bringing food to the homeless. Helping a man she was insanely attracted to get over the death of his parents…

She clenched her fists.

No. She refused to help him.

He didn’t deserve it! And what would come of it if she did? She’d help him see past his demons, he’d become the man he was supposed to be, and they’d ride off into the sunset together?

More like, he’d thank her, give her a hug—that was, if it actually worked and he didn’t strangle her first—and he’d ride off into the sunset with Barbie’s twin. They’d have beautiful children, who in turn would have beautiful children, and people like her would watch from the sidelines.

She swallowed the giant lump forming in her throat.

Something needed to change in her life—and it started now.

With trembling hands she turned on her phone again and gasped as texts flooded her inbox.

All of them from her sisters.

It seemed like they’d gone from angry to understanding in an instant.

Jane groaned into her hands and continued reading the messages. After five or six kind messages they started turning threatening and manipulative again.

Esmeralda:
You can’t just leave like this. You’re our family. What would dad have said? It’s so selfish!

Guilt spread through her body. In a way, it
was
selfish of her to leave them, but she was going crazy! They were choking the life out of her and they didn’t even seem to care how they were hurting her.

She was just ready to text back when another message popped up.

It was a picture of Essence.

And she was wearing Jane’s pearls.

The ones that had broken all over the nightclub floor. But how? She’d just assumed they were done for. It had been dark in the club and bodies had been everywhere.

Essence:
This just got delivered, but since you’re gone…

Jane texted furiously.

Jane:
My pearls! Who sent them? How?

Essence:
Oh, so NOW you respond? When there’s something you want?

Tears blurred her eyes as she typed back.

Jane:
No! I had my phone off. Please! I’ll be home in a few weeks! Just keep them safe.

Essence:
No promises.

Emotion clogged Jane’s throat as she touched the screen to her phone. It wasn’t the fact that they were expensive—it was the fact that the pearls had been her mother’s.

Given to her.

The next text was a picture of Esmeralda wearing Jane’s shoes, the ones Brock had gotten for her.

Esmeralda:
They look better on me.

She knew it. She’d just known that Esmeralda had taken the shoes that day, but she’d been too weak to fight her on it; she didn’t want to start a fight she knew she couldn’t win or finish.

But now. She turned the phone back off and let the reality of her situation with her sisters hit her full force.

Brock hadn’t realized it, but he was right, and she had been talking about herself as much as she was talking about him. She needed to face her demons, her ghosts, and deal with them once and for all.

It was amazing how easy it was to see how her sisters manipulated her, now that she was away from them. It was as if a fog had cleared, and she could see that the only reason they kept her around…

Was for them.

Her father wouldn’t want her to live that way.

It was a revelation she’d never had before, and it was the first time in the last five years that even though her body was sore, her heart felt light.

She was getting paid thirty grand.

That was more than enough for her to be able to either bribe them to move out, or sell the house and move out herself. The only problem would be getting her sisters’ approval to sell it.

Her shoulders slumped. It would never work. She adored that house—she’d grown up in that house. To just let them have it—trash it?

The thought made her shudder.

She quickly pulled her hair back into a bun, tossed on a pair of ripped jeans, a gray tank top, and white Converse sneakers, her cleaning uniform for the day.

Except.

Brock.

No matter how hard she tried she couldn’t get his defeated expression out of her mind, or the way he looked at her, noticed her, even when he seemed annoyed with himself for being that transparent.

He wasn’t a reason to put on makeup.

After all, he seemed angry whenever she drew his attention and the last thing she needed was more anger from him.

She shook her head and glanced one last time in the mirror. Large brown eyes with matching brown hair, a strong jaw, black eyelashes.

Makeup would help.

She moved past the mirror, stopped, started walking again. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered, finally swiping on some pink lipstick from the nearby dresser and rubbing her lips together.

The lipstick was for her.

Not him.

Never him.

It made her feel confident. Like she’d just put on a suit of armor.

She walked into the living room and paused. The blanket from the night before was still draped across the floor and part of the couch.

Last night he’d looked at her…really looked at her. Maybe it had been her imagination but his lips seemed to linger over the ceramic cup when they locked eyes.

She shivered and wrapped her arms around her chest. The dark room was suddenly too small, too depressing. She glanced around for the light, but the minute she flipped the switch, the blinds seemed to come alive, begging to be pulled.

Well, he couldn’t get any more angry with her. His conflicted expression flashed in her mind. A minute ago she was trying not to make him angry and now she was going to poke the bear.

With a sigh, she grabbed each of the strings to the blinds and pulled them completely up.

Light immediately flooded the room, opening it up, making it feel bigger—massive, actually. And just like Brock had said, the light flooded all the way into the kitchen, creating a beautiful streak of sunlight as if heaven really was looking down and smiling.

With a grin, she skipped over to the kitchen, doing a few twirls in her Converses on the way.

“She used to do that,” came a rough voice. “Dance in the sunlight.”

Nearly tripping into the wall, Jane recovered and turned around. A sleepy Bentley was making his way into the room. “I don’t remember much, but I do remember that.”

“I’m sorry.” Jane felt horrible.

Bentley frowned. “Why would you feel sorry for dancing in streams of sunlight?” His face transformed into a grin before he grabbed her body and pulled it against his, twirling her around the room.

“You know the quick step?” She let out a breathless laugh.

“Grandfather raised me right.” He winked, tugging her body across the floor directly into the sunlight.

A burst of laughter escaped her as he bent her down and his lips hovered near her neck.

“Careful,” he warned, eyes locking with hers. “You’ll make me think you want me more than Brock, and I would hate getting strangled to death.” He leaned in toward her mouth. “Then again, it may be worth it.”

“What. The. Hell.” Brock’s voice was deafening. “Is happening in here?”

Bentley pulled her to her feet and turned. “Dancing. You know, where you move your feet and hold a woman close enough to feel the tips of her breasts press against your chest and—”

“Bentley, I swear I really will kill you if you finish that sentence,” Brock barked, his eyes thunderous as he looked between the two.

Suddenly feeling guilty, Jane backed slowly away from the testosterone and went into the kitchen.

She knew exactly what she was going to make.

Luckily, she’d gotten a few groceries from the store, including a few frozen treats.

Twenty minutes later the smell of cinnamon filled the house.

The timer went off. She grabbed the oven mitts and pulled the tray of cinnamon rolls out, then slowly began to drizzle icing across them.

“Are those”—Brock was suddenly behind her, and she could feel the heat of every warm masculine inch of him—“what I think they are?”

She gulped. He was going to yell. She just knew it.

Tensing, she gave him a jerky nod.

“And was it you who opened the blinds?”

“Y-yes,” she stammered.

His hands moved to her shoulders and then slid down her arms. With a sharp inhale he whispered gruffly, “Thank you.”

And then he was gone.

Her arms however, kept the memory of the way his hands had caressed her body.

It took a few minutes for her to regain her composure, and by then all three men were in and out of the kitchen as they grabbed coffee. Each of them tried to swipe icing off the rolls as they passed by.

“Let them cool!” she yelled when Brock came in for the second time.

He held his hands in the air. “I was just going to ask when they would be ready.”

“They’re ready when they’re ready!” She shoved him out of the kitchen.

“Heartless wench!” Bentley yelled. “Give us food!”

“Man hungry,” Brant growled, slamming his hand against the table. “Man need food!”

She shook her head and tried to keep the laugh in, but when they all started arguing she knew it was useless; they were walking, talking chaos.

Finally, she grabbed a few plates and piled the cinnamon rolls high, then deposited them in the middle of the table.

Hands went surging forward.

Within minutes, all of the cinnamon rolls were gone.

Even the icing was all but licked from the plate.

“So, I have a completely nonsexual proposition for you.” Brant leaned back and patted his stomach. “Live with me, bake for me, I’ll make you a very happy woman. Cars.” He spread his hands wide. “Money. Furs.”

Bentley nodded encouragingly. “You’ll be our kept woman. But you have to bake every day. Don’t worry, we’ll give you a safe word, just in case things get too crazy.”

“Who needs a safe word for cooking?” Brant asked, licking his finger while he winked at Jane.

“Food’s erotic.” Bentley blinked. “You’re almost as clueless as Brock.”

Brock groaned slowly and started banging his head against the table.

Both men ignored him and continued to argue about what Jane’s safe word should be.

“Potato!” Bentley snapped his fingers.

“There’s nothing liberating about a damn potato!” Brant argued. “How about ‘cherry’?” He smirked. “Get it? Cherry?”

Brock stood abruptly and started grabbing all of the plates, making more noise than necessary as he fumbled with the forks and left the dining area.

“Better go help him, Cherry.” Bentley winked. “Fuck me, I love sexy nicknames.”

She knew he was kidding but she was still embarrassed. With a weak wave of her hand she went into the kitchen, only to find Brock doing the dishes.

For someone who had been doing nothing but cleaning up after other people her entire life, it was like watching porn.

His denim shirt was rolled up to his elbows; tanned forearms flexed as he dipped a dish into the water and began to wipe.

A whimper escaped her lips before she could stop it.

He looked up at the sound and a smile spread across his face. “Imagine what would happen if I had a larger…plate,” he teased.

Her face probably did look like a cherry.

Clearing her throat, she grabbed one of the wet dishes and started drying it, only to have him pull the towel from her hands and jerk the plate away from her.

Great, he was mad again. Just when she’d gotten him to smile.

His large body loomed over hers, his blue eyes flashed and then his mouth slammed against hers.

She wasn’t ready for it.

Then again, she imagined as his tongue slid past her lips, a woman could never be prepared for a kiss like this.

It was as if he was claiming her, consuming her, and the very last thing she wanted to scream out was “Cherry.”

His body pressed so hard against hers she could feel his arousal strain against his jeans. Jane gripped his shirt, bunching it in her hands as he deepened the kiss with a growl, only to abruptly pull away.

Chest heaving, he whispered a hoarse “thank you” before walking out of the kitchen.

She didn’t move.

She couldn’t.

“Everything okay in here?” Bentley poked his head around the corner then grinned. “Oh, never mind, I can see things went just fine. Need to go take a cold shower?”

Jane glared.

“Don’t deny it. I can practically smell sexual arousal when it hits the air. Just remember to use protection; I’m too young to be an uncle.”

“Don’t you have a job?” Her voice was stupidly weak.

“Yup.” He nodded. “And I’m so good at it and so rich that I rarely need to be in the office. Lucky you.”

“Yes, just what I was thinking. Lucky me.”

He smirked. “Do you want help with the rest of the dishes? I can dry while you overanalyze the panty-melting kiss he just gave you.”

Searing heat blazed her cheeks, and she turned around and shoved her hands into the soapy water.

Bentley grabbed a plate and started drying. “Did he use tongue?”

Water sloshed over the edge of the sink.

Bentley tilted his head and nodded. “That slick bastard. He dark-horsed me, didn’t he?”

“Hunh?” She blinked over at him and dipped a plate into the hot soapy water.

“Brock’s the Dark Horse. He just staked his claim and ran like the ass he is, but it’s good to see him actually do something for himself for once.” He was quiet. “Damn, must have been some kiss if you’re still thinking about it.”