Page 25 of Fire in You

A strangled laugh escaped me. “Well, I’m not seventeen anymore.”

“I can see that.”

A fine shiver coursed over my skin as I looked up. There was an intense, almost predatory glint to his stare, one I didn’t understand. And it suddenly struck me, really hit me, that after six years, Brock Mitchell was standing in my apartment, inmyworld, and I would never in a hundred years have expected this.

But there he was, larger than life itself, turning what was a roomy apartment into something that now felt entirely too small. He was one hundred percent grown man who was not just breathtaking to behold, but a walking legend in the world of mixed martial arts. More than that, though, he was a man who overcame such a terrible childhood, beating statistics and naysayers. Demolishing everyone’s doubt as he rose through the ranks, suffering a career-threatening injury to come back and win it all, over and over.

Brock had fire in him.

He always had.

And that was what had drawn me to him from the moment I’d seen him in the living room, glaring up at my father even though he was afraid and hungry.

The kitchen island separated us, but he reached over it with one long arm. The Henley stretched against his muscles as he swept his thumb along my skin, right over the deep indentation left in my cheek.

I sucked in a startled breath as that touch burned its way through me. My senses shorted out and a wild heat swept down the entire front of my body, tightening the tips of my breasts. He was only touching my cheek, my scar, and my body was flipping out.

Brock held my stare for a moment too long and then exhaled heavily, dropping his hand. I had no idea what he was thinking as he shifted his gaze away from me, but he had touched the scar, and I could only imagine it was something I probably didn’t want to hear.

Unnerved, I grabbed the ends of my cardigan and yanked them together. Time to get this conversation back on track. “So, why did you—”

“Damn,” he cursed, eyes narrowing. “What in the hell just darted across your floor?”

I turned just in time to see the tail end of Rhage’s brown and white butt scurrying behind the couch. “Oh, that’s Rhage, my cat. He hates people, so it’s best to pretend like he doesn’t exist.”

“Rage?” He looked back at me, brows raised. “That’s an interesting name.”

“It’s based on a vampire—a book character.”

“Glad you clarified it was a book character,” he teased as he reached over and grabbed a paper towel. “Did you get enough of these? We might need one more.”

“Shut up.” My lips twitched as I realized something else about Brock hadn’t changed over the years. He loved to tease. Never maliciously, but he was always playful.

“For a second I thought you had a rat.” He moved to one of the barstools. “Sit with me.”

“Do you want anything to drink?”

“A water would be fine.”

Of course he would ask for a water while eating a doughnut, I thought as I grabbed myself a Coke, because why would I purposely drink water when I had carbonated goodness within reach? I grabbed a bottle of water and placed it in front of him as I walked around the island and sat on the barstool that forced him to sit on my left.

I hopped up, only realizing then that my hair was pulled back from my face. I started to reach for the pin securing the length in place, but stopped myself. What was the point? Not like he hadn’t seen it—and seen it when it had been a hell of a lot worse than this. Plus he’d just touched the one scar, so . . .

Annoyed with myself, I bit into the doughnut and nearly moaned as my taste buds practically orgasmed. It had been so long since I ate the fried, sugary yumminess.

“You like?” Brock asked, his heavy hooded gaze on me.

Mouth full, I nodded.

His smile was swift and wide. “Good.” His gaze flicked away from a moment. “You know what this reminds me of?”

I raised my brows since my mouth was full.

“When we used to sit in the kitchen late at night, because you decided you wanted brownies or cake,” he said.

Swallowing the sticky goodness, I picked up my can of soda. I didn’t want to reminisce with him, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Actually,youwanted brownies or cake.”

He chuckled. “That’s a revisionist history of events.”

---