Page 14 of The Hang Up

Hey.

A laugh burst out of me.

Joshua

Are you okay?

Everything I planned on saying flew out the window.

Brock

No

He immediately called me.

“Brock?” His voice sounded warm, like honey. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

And that was all it took. I started to cry.

CHAPTER5

Joshua

My hand shookas I knocked on the door. I’d faced down ruthless assholes in the boardroom. Hell, I’d dealt with Victoria’s shit for years. But showing up at my son’s apartment unannounced and unwelcomed…what if Sean was here? I shook my head at that. Brock would have told me not to come if my son was here.

But did it really matter? Brock needed me. I wasn’t saying no.

The answering silence seemed to drag on, and I knocked again. Was this a mistake? Then I heard footsteps and sniffling outside the door. Two thoughts came to mind immediately. One, I wanted to wrap Brock in my arms and protect him. The second thought wouldn’t be welcomed by Brock or my son. This area wasn’t the best, and their thin-ass door needed to be replaced. Would they accept my help in buying a new door? What about a new apartment? Not likely.

The door opened, and Brock glanced at me quickly and then at the floor. He looked closer to the Brock I remembered, dressed in sweatpants and a thin T-shirt with ruffled hair and always avoiding my gaze. “Hey,” he said, shifting his feet. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Can I come in?” I smiled and glanced at the lady unlocking her door and giving me curious looks. “We’re garnering attention.”

“Oh God. Yes.” He opened the door wide enough for me to step through. “Do you want something to drink?” he asked, his voice still sounding broken as he led me to the kitchen.

The kitchen looked cozy, and the warm colors and gadgets everywhere told me this was Brock’s space. This was where he felt most comfortable. “Yes. Tea, water, anything is fine.” I wasn’t thirsty, but giving Brock something to do might help him relax.

He didn’t speak as he grabbed a glass, added ice, and poured tea from a pitcher. “Sugar or sweetener?”

“No, thanks.”

“Lemon?” When I didn’t answer, he glanced up at me. I tried to hide my smile—the man was obviously hurting—but he was still so damn adorable playing host. His cheeks pinkened and he rolled his eyes.

“Yes, please,” I finally said. I had to get a grip on this need to hold him. To take care of him. Because it was becoming a problem.

When we had our drinks, we sat at the island, not talking. I wanted to give him time. Wait until he was ready. I had patience. I could outwait the best of them when it came to business. People didn’t do well with silence, and if you waited long enough, they spilled their secrets or gave in. But this man was different. I studied the island’s fake marble countertop, trying not to think about being in my son’s home. Was this his seat? I wiped my hands on my jeans.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have texted you.” Brock’s eyes met mine, and this time, he didn’t look away. I could see the pain. The worry. The loneliness. Was I imagining that?

“Why did you?” I asked. When he started to stand, I touched his arm. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Just…why me?” And why was his answer so important?

He shook his head. “I’ve been asking myself that same question.”

“Did you get an answer?” I joked, trying to lighten the mood. And failing. I wasn’t used to failing—okay, not true. I’d failed with Victoria. I’d failed with Sean. I didn’t want to fail with Brock. I sipped my iced tea. It tasted amazing. And gave me the distraction I needed from his expressive blue eyes.

“Yes.”

The tea sputtered from my mouth as I choked on my drink. “Sorry,” I said, taking the napkin he offered me.

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