Page 58 of Presley's Christmas Catch
That is, the dress I’m wearing to the party. It’s a shimmery green that I chose for Christmas vibes, but it gives off mermaid more than anything else with the way it hugs close to my knees and then flares out. The red high-heeled shoes I bought for theoutfit give me four inches. A lot closer to Brock’s lips, if you ask me. They have a ruffle on the toes that make them perfect for the festive Christmas look.
If Brock continues to pretend like he doesn’t have more than “friendly” feelings toward me when he sees me in this dress, I have nothing left except to wear him down.
That’s not a tactic I want to have to resort to.
My doorbell rings, and I wish I’d had Mom and Dad come here early so one of them could open the door and I could have a big, dramatic reveal. Instead I stride to the door, setting the tone for the confidence I need to confront Brock and prove my theory.
I pull open the door, leaving my hand on the handle and putting my other hand on my hip, striking what I hope isn’t too obvious of a pose to show this dress off best I can.
“Hey,” I grin, then I have to keep my own jaw from dropping. Brock’s suit does some impressive things for him. Most offensive linemen carry weight in their middle. For them, it’s all about being immovable mountains. Brock is the one that doesn’t belong. He’s strong and huge in his own right, but he’s all muscle, looking more like a defensive tackle than an offensive lineman. This suit makes him look even sleeker. He’s wearing all black from head to toe with a tie in the exact shade of green as my dress.
When I pull my gaze away from him, thinking how I’ve probably crashed and burned my plan by ogling him, I catch him still staring at me.
I can’t help but smirk. “Your tie matches my dress,” I say. My money is on the Former Best Friends Club being involved in this, though I couldn’t tell you exactly how. I didn’t tell any of them about my dress this week. We missed our usual Tuesday hang out, a.k.a. their therapy sessions, because I was in New York, and I haven’t seen any of them most of the week except in passing at the facility and during the game.
Brock steps into the apartment. He stands close to me, and Idon’t increase the distance. “Lucky guess?” he says, looking down at me.
“Right…” I keep my hand on my hip while I continue to eye him.
He smiles back at me. The air between us heats up.Come on, I coax him.Just tell me. Better yet, kiss me.
My phone rings from the couch. Probably my mom, letting us know they’re here.
“Ready?” Brock asks. Neither of us has moved, and the door remains open. We’re in a stand-off of some kind, neither one of us willing to totally break this moment between us.
The phone ringing forces me to be the one to step back. I hurry over to the couch to grab the phone. “Hey, Mom.”
“We’re downstairs. Whenever you’re ready,” she says. And then hangs up. I pull the phone from my ear and look down at it, frowning in confusion. That was weird.
“Everything okay?” Brock asks. He’s closed the apartment door, but stands close to it, hands in his pockets, accentuating all those muscles. Arms, shoulders, trim waist.
I pull myself together. The point of inviting him tonight was to make sure he was looking atme. “No. My mom’s being weird.” I grab my red clutch from the couch and shove my phone in next to the small velvet box with a bow on it. If I put it under the tree, I want it to be recognizable quickly and not get overlooked tonight. Then I reach for the wrap in a shade of green just darker than my dress and drape it over my shoulders. “All ready,” I say, walking back over to Brock. He watches me the whole way, so maybe we’re even in our ogling score.
When we reach the sidewalk, Brock puts his hand on my back as we walk toward my parents’ silver SUV parked right out front.
I suppress a shiver that has nothing to do with the cool temperature as Brock walks me around to the seat behind the driver’s side. I almost laugh when I slide in and see that Momhas her seat pulled so far up that her knees are brushing the glovebox, leaving Brock plenty of room in the back seat.
I take the moment to slide even further in, making sure that when Brock takes his seat behind my mom that we’ll be sitting right next to each other. If we’re doing this couple thing without saying we’re doing the couple thing, I’m going all in. Do I need an official declaration to be with Brock? Not necessarily. So long as whatever’s going on tonight ends with a kiss.
Brock one ups me by draping his arm across the top of my seat the way he did when we drove to the airport. He doesn’t comment, and this time he lets his hand drop close to my shoulder, fingers gently skimming back and forth over the fabric of my wrap. We chat with my parents on the drive back to their neighborhood, Brock and Dad quickly falling into football talk with Dad grilling Brock about how he sees so much on the line during the games. I hold tightly to my clutch, my fingers tracing the shape of the velvet box over and over. Mostly to keep my hand from finding its way to the top of Brock’s thigh.
Then I realize we’re basically in some weird game of chicken where we’re waiting for the other one to break first. For one of us to point at the other and cry out, “Ha ha! I knew it! You like me.” I lean forward to ask Mom if a friend of hers is coming to the party and put my hand on Brock’s leg as I do, not moving it when I settle back into my seat after she answers. Brock doesn’t look down at my hand, doesn’t even react. My lips twitch. Despite wanting an answer now, this game is fun.
Mom glances at us over her shoulder. Dad goes back to talking about football.
Like every year, the Westcotts have a valet waiting to take the car, and a red carpet from the front drive to the entrance. They pay a photographer to take pictures since it’s LA, and this party will have more than a handful of celebrities. The photographer’s eyes brighten when she catches sight of Brock, and she motions for us to pause so she can get pictures. Perfect. I lean in close toBrock and put one hand around his waist and the other on his chest.
Brock’s move is to wrap his long arm around me and nudge me even closer. Touché, Brock, touché.
We enter through the tall, glass double doors of the Westcotts’ mansion. Mr. and Mrs. Westcott are standing about midway through the large entry, greeting guests. Mrs. Westcott has on a placid smile as she says something to a couple who came in before us. Mr. Westcott’s expression is tense, not exactly angry, but as though frustration is just under the surface. What’s that about? Could he be regretting having their Christmas party as usual, considering what happened last year?
We reach the Westcotts, and Mrs. Westcott turns her placid smile on Mom. “Hello, Pam. Steven,” she says. “Presley, wonderful to see you.” She arches her eyebrows at Brock.
“This is my friend, Brock Hunter,” I introduce.
Her expression never changes. “A pleasure, Brock.” She extends a hand, which Brock shakes and then Mr. Westcott does the same without saying anything, just giving Brock a tight nod.
“As a warning,” Mrs. Westcott says before we move away. “There are some gentlemen here tonight who will be asking questions. We would appreciate you giving them any information you can about the party last year. Trying to recover the ring, of course.”
