Page 9 of Iowa Intellect
“Is that supposed to make me feel privileged?” Her tone is snippy.
I’m confused, until I realize that I’ve just managed to make it sound like I bring women back here for a quick bang, and then I boot them out the door. That is the exact opposite of the impression I’d been trying to give her.
“It’s not like that.” I hold my hands up in mock surrender as I say, “I’m really not a cad. When I have sex with a woman, I let her stay the night. It’s the least I can do. I just meant that I haven’t done that since moving in here.”
From her pinched expression, it’s obvious that the more I try to explain myself, the worse I am making things sound.
Giving up on turning this particular conversation around, I head towards the kitchen and say in my most welcoming voice, “Come on in and make yourself at home.”
We stand awkwardly together in my gourmet kitchen, until I offer, “Can I get you something to drink?”
I try not to let the disappointment show on my face when she says, “No, it’s been a long day. I’d really appreciate it if you can just show me to my room.”
“Sure thing,” I respond, already turning to lead her there, even as I curse myself for royally screwing up one of the best opportunities to ever come my way.
10
CAROLINE
Ican’t sleep. Brock’s guest room is swanky, and the bed with the thick duvet is super comfortable, but I can’t seem to do anything but toss and turn.
It was absolutely adorable to see how nervous he was to have me in his home. And it was both surprising and a huge relief that he doesn’t normally have women stay here. But no matter how hard it is, I have to force myself to maintain some type of professional distance with him.
We’ve already crossed some boundaries. That can’t be undone, but I’ll do what I can to make sure no further breaches occur. My job is too important to me to risk it further by having an inappropriate relationship with a man who most likely merely views me as his latest conquest.
It’s obvious by the way he looks at me that he wants me, but I’m sure after I leave here tomorrow morning, he will move on to the next woman in line. I would love to believe that I am special to him, but handsome and athletic men––like Brock––are not known for their loyalty and commitment to one woman.
Stopping this insane, wildly inappropriate crush I have on him in its tracks is my only viable option.
My stomach lets out a loud rumble, reminding me that I scurried off to hide in this bedroom without having any dinner. After recovering from the life-threatening scare that I had in the pool, my body is ready for some comfort food, but it feels a bit pushy and presumptuous to sneak in and raid Brock’s kitchen.
Knowing that I’ll never get to sleep with an empty stomach, I mutter to myself that he did tell me to ‘make myself at home’ as I slip quietly out of my bedroom, intent on finding a snack.
Part of me is relieved that the living area of the house is dark, but there’s no denying the tiny surge of disappointment that lets me know that I was secretly hoping to run into Brock out here.
I use my phone’s flashlight to guide me. Even though I am intent on trekking to the kitchen, I am distracted by the bookshelves in the living room. I’d been so preoccupied by Brock’s nearness as he led me through the house earlier that I hadn’t taken note of the organized shelves brimming with books.
Unable to restrain myself from taking a peek at what he likes to read, I make a beeline for the built-in shelves. I’m pleasantly surprised to discover a well-rounded array of classics and current bestsellers. It’s obvious by his book collection that the man has diverse interests.
I’m inspecting a long row of beautiful, hardcover poetry books when I sense his presence in the room.
“Are you checking to see if they are just cardboard facades?” His voice sounds more rumbly than normal as he turns on the overhead lights.
After shutting off my phone’s light, I turn to face him, trying not to let my embarrassment show in my expression over being caught rifling through his personal collection of books. “No, I had the feeling there was more to you than just sticks and pucks.”
In a purposely slow voice, he responds, “Yes, Brock can read.”
The amused chuckle bursts out of me at his self-effacing humor. When my laughter subsides, I say, “I had no doubt about that, but I must admit, that I wouldn’t have guessed you to be a poetry aficionado.”
“Apparently, I’m full of surprises,” he responds with a knowing smile.
Nodding, I turn back to continue exploring his intriguing bookshelves. When I reach the end, shiny copper catches my eye. I’m unable to contain my delighted gasp when I realize what his bookend displays are. Turning to him with wide eyes, I ask, “You collect pennies?”
“I do. It was one of my first interests as a child, other than hockey. Since we didn’t have much money, I always searched through all of our change in the hopes that I would find a rare, collectible penny that was worth big bucks.” His eyes are alight with joy at the obviously fond memories of looking for hidden treasure in a seemingly worthless pile of coins.
“Did you ever find one that you were looking for?” I ask, truly interested in the answer.
“Nah,” he shakes his head and stares down at the ground. “But it kept me busy and hopeful to look for them.”
