An impressed grin shadows his lips. “Yeah. You’re definitely the coolest girl I’ve ever met.”
With the worm swinging in misery, I bat my lashes, deposit myself on the edge of the pier, and dip my bare feet into the cool water. After removing his sneakers, Brock sits next to me, also dipping his feet in the water. A pleasurable chill runs along my spine when I feel his bare flesh against my ribs.
“I can tell you’re not from around here,” he says, breaking me from the stupidity that seems to have made a cozy nest within my brain.
I cast my line into the water. “How so?”
“You have a West Coast accent.”
“I’m not from the West Coast, and I definitely don’t have an accent.”
“I’m pretty positive you’re from the West Coast, and you sure as fuck have an accent.” He casts his prisoner into the lake, a lazy smile on his face. “But don’t be embarrassed by it. It’s a part of your sexiness.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” I scoff. “You’re the one with a Southern twang.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Maryland’s far from Southern, but if you say so, I’m nothing but a Southern boy for you, Miss Ber.”
“Oh my God. Would you stop with the whole ‘miss’ thing?” I giggle, knowing this dude, this beast of a competitor, just might shake my faith in all I’ve ever believed in.
“For now I will, but I’m not making any long-term promises on that one.” He grins, and I shake my head. “So what’s the deal with you and Happy Days? I did a little research, and no one I know grew up running home to watch that shit.”
Do I choose honesty and tell him that between the ages of four and eight, when my parents were looking to score their next fix, they’d leave me unattended for hours on end with nothing but a bag of Doritos and VHS tapes of Happy Days to keep me occupied, or do I go with the classic lie?
“My parents worked a lot, and the babysitter had a thing for Henry Winkler.” I shrug, trying to downplay the only good memories I have of being left alone. “She was a bit of an outcast in the social department.”
He smiles, suspicion glimmering in his eyes. “Right.”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you were the one who had the crush on Henry Winkler. Not the babysitter. Nice try.”
I might’ve grown up with Henry keeping me entertained, but that’s about as far as my noncrush went. “Are you nuts?” I ask over a laugh, positive he lost his mind long before I stumbled into the picture.
“I’m as close to crazy as they get, darlin’. But come on,” he urges, lightly elbowing my ribs. “You like that I’m a little out there. Admit it.”
“I’ll do no such thing.” And I won’t.
Though he looks as though he belongs on the cover of a magazine, has a cute sense of humor, and is trying hard as hell to get into my panties, Brock has another thing coming if he thinks I’ll admit to anything this early on. If ever. It’s as if he’s trying to open me up and read the torn pages of my heart. To be honest, I don’t like it. I’ve already reduced myself to acting like an excited ball of anxiety around him, and I have no intention of letting the situation get out of hand.
Well, at least not the mental part. I’m all for the physical, though.
“I can’t figure you out,” he says, searching my face.
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind.” He looks out at the water, his expression distant.
“No. Tell me,” I press, nudging his arm.
He brings his attention back to me, a million questions floating behind his eyes. “From you not giving me your number, to making it close to impossible to get you to go out on a date with me . . .” A pause, a shake of his head. “I don’t know. I just can’t figure you out.”
“Why are you trying to figure me out?” I ask, my concentration turning to the light tug on my line.
“You’re like a jigsaw puzzle.” He shrugs, his voice soft. “One that’s in desperate need of being put together.”
I swallow, my heart rioting in protest. “I don’t need your pity, and besides, maybe I don’t want to be put together.”
Another lie.
I think I want to be put together, but I’m pretty damn sure no one can accomplish that without losing their sanity along the way.
He licks his lips and stares at me a long moment. “I’m usually not a pity-giving dude, believe that, but something’s telling me you might be worth it. What if I leave you no choice?”
“Huh?” Thrown by his response, I pull my attention from what I’m sure is a fish murdering the worm on my hook. “I don’t understand.”
“Ah, sure you do. You heard what I said, Ber. What if I leave you no other choice but to let me put you back together?” He shrugs again, his eyes alight with challenge. “I’m all for nicknames and figuring out people who I think need something more in their lives. Especially ones who I’m pretty fucking sure stepped into mine for a reason.”
Though his declaration comes out as a soft whisper, the conviction in it torches my ears. I clutch the fishing pole tighter and stare at him, my heart pounding as my mind replays his words. I don’t say anything. I can’t. Instead, I look at the water, wishing I weren’t so handicapped about opening up to others.