Page 16 of The Hang Up

He pulled his hand away and covered his face. “Oh my God.”

“You were jerking off in our bathroom?” I could barely believe it. My voice dropped as if Sean from the past—anyone from the past—could hear me. “Thinking of me?”

“Stop. It’s not my fault,” he said, moving his hands. His face was as red as the cherry-red Corvette I bought after my divorce. Cliché? Maybe. But I loved that car. “I was a teen. Everything…excited me. And you with your gorgeous body and dark chest hair with a few gray ones mixed in…and your ass.” He closed his eyes and shook his head, and I wondered if he was having the same issue now.

I leaned in. “You’re not a teenager anymore, Brock.”

He nodded and held up a finger but didn’t open his eyes. “One minute.”

The thought of him turned on and fighting it had me inappropriately, achingly hard. In my son’s kitchen. Jesus. “Shouldn’t you be able to resist the lure of an older man?”

“Stop. Talking.” A beat of silence passed. “Please.”

I chuckled, enjoying his discomfort more than I should.

“Fuck.That’snot helping.”

I used the opportunity to study him. Which meant memorizing every freckle not hidden by his hands. The slant of his jaw. The strong column of his neck. His classic nose. And those lips. Full and—right now—almost chewed through. He was gorgeous. And I wanted him so much it was physically painful. I realized, in that moment, I could have him. One touch was all it would take. But I also knew, without a doubt, that he’d hate me. Or worse. He’d hate himself. I couldn’t let that happen. “Should I talk about Sean?”

He groaned. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“What about that awful server you have at the restaurant?”

“Yancy? God, he’s a douchebag.”

“How has he not been fired yet? He’s rude. Condescending. Arrogant.”

Brock gestured with one hand. “He’s the owner’s nephew.”

“That’s awful. And not good for business.”

“I’ve mentioned it. Not to the owner, but—” He stopped and stared at me.

I tried not to squirm. “What?”

“Thank you.”

I lifted my shoulder, trying to appear nonchalant when I felt anything but. “Any time you need a boner killer—”

“Don’t do that. Sean does that too. You can’t joke your way out of everything.” When I didn’t respond to his assumption or to him comparing me to my son, he ran his fingers down his glass in a very distracting way—innocent, totally innocent—but still distracting. “I don’t remember the point of this conversation,” he said, grabbing a towel to wipe the condensation from his hands.

“How I’m so amazing that you couldn’t resist me?” I asked with a nervous laugh. His eyes narrowed with no trace of amusement.Shit.I was still doing it. “Sorry.”

“I felt a connection…stillfeel a connection to you. It was just a crush before the”—he gestured toward my chest—“the thing. But recently… Maybe it’s all in my head.”

“It’s not.”

“Really?” he said as if he wanted to believe it but couldn’t.

“I like Shultie’s. The food is good. But it’s not eat-there-every-single-day-for-a-month good. I feel it too. I think about you way too much. I want—” I shook my head. Nope. “Tell me why you reached out to me, Brock.”

“I just explained—”

“No. I don’t mean why me specifically. Why did you need to talk to anyone?”

“Oh.”

I waited. Not my strong suit when it came to Brock. Or anyone I cared about. He nodded, and I thought I would get the answers I needed.

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