Page 31 of The Confidentiality Clause
I bite my lip. Who cares if the guy puts sweaters on his dogs when he talks like that?
Before responding, I tiptoe out of my room. If Brock is sleeping, I don’t want to wake him. One, because I’m convinced the man never sleeps. And two, because I really don’t feel like Brock seeing me in my bathing suit.
The living room and kitchen are mostly dark, save for a light above the stove. I head for that, scanning the room and breathing easier when I find that Brock isn’t out here. It takes me a minute to find where the wine is. I spot the bottle on a rack atop the fridge.
I set my phone down on the counter, clutch my towel with one hand, and reach with the other. My fingertips don’t even brush the cork. I huff and try again.
“Need some help?” A deep voice from behind startles me.
I screech in surprise and lose my grip on the towel. It drops to the floor. I close my eyes as hot embarrassment floods my veins.
Brock walks over and reaches up, easily grabbing the bottle. He sets it on the counter.
“I thought you were asleep,” I mumble.
He holds up a laptop charger. “My computer died. I’m still working.”
I drop down and pick up my towel off the ground without meeting his gaze.
“You weren’t going to invite me?” The teasing lilt in his voice makes my skin burn even hotter.
“I think we’ve spent enough time together today,” I mutter.
He chuckles. The sound is too warm and cozy in the dark of night.
I pull down a wine glass and a corkscrew. Brock slides the bottle away from me before I can start to uncap it.
“Allow me.”
I reluctantly hand over the corkscrew. Our fingers brush. Tingles plague the length of my arm. Dark red liquid fills the glass as he pours. I dare to look at him. His hair is mussed, and the bags under his eyes have returned. He’s changed into a t-shirt and swim trunks from the store. There’s something about him being out of his usual suit that makes him look more vulnerable and boyish. It tugs at my foolish heartstrings.
“You should take a break. Let your laptop charge while you take a dip.”
He smirks. The expression is dark and sultry in this lighting.
“For someone who insists on not liking me, you seem to enjoy inviting me to do romantic things.”
I roll my eyes and grab my glass of wine. “Don’t come, then. Work yourself to death, for all I care.”
“So hostile,” he tsks.
I tuck my phone in the crook of my arm and head for the jacuzzi without saying anything else. His laughter is a warm curl of smoke trailing after me.
“I’m messing with you, Duke. If you really don’t mind, I think a few minutes would be nice.”
“Come open this door for me, and the invite stands,” I say once I realize that I’d be dropping my towel again if I tried to open it on my own.
He jogs over and opens the door with a grand sweeping gesture.
“The theatrics weren’t necessary,” I grumble as I step outside.
The air is thick with humidity, but the heat of the day has dissipated. It’s a pleasant warmth after being in an air-conditioned room for so long.
“I’m going to grab a towel,” Brock says before disappearing back through the door.
I quickly take off the cover and start the jets, then adjust the temperature on the dial. After that, I hang my towel on a nearby hook and scramble to get in before Brock gets back. I don’t need him seeing any more of me than he already has. A glance in a dark kitchen is one thing. There’s no reason to be on full display.
Brock returns shortly after I’ve submerged up to my shoulders. This is usually the part where I let out a contented sigh, close my eyes, and relax. But every inch of me is tense watching Brock. He hangs his towel on the hook next to mine, then tugs his shirt up over his head. Is he moving in slow motion? This feels like slow motion.
