“Will smokin’ hot guy be there?”

“His name is Brock,” I whispered.

“Will smokin’ hot but bad for you Brock be there?” she amended.

“I don’t know,” I told her the truth. “But what I have to say won’t wait and he knows about it anyway so if he is, you’ll deal. If he isn’t, he isn’t. Yeah?”

Silence.

Then, “So this isn’t about him?”

“No, it isn’t. It’s about something I should have told you awhile ago but I didn’t and I need to…” My eyes slid to Brock and saw his were on me as I saw he was moving toward me. Then he made it to me. Then his arm wrapped around my belly, the front of his body hit the back of mine, I felt his heat then I felt his face in my neck. Only then did I continue, “I need to get rid of it so it’s time to tell you about it.”

Straight off the bat, she whispered her guess, “Damian.”

That’s when I knew she knew or she might not actually know but she sensed there were deeper issues at play but she backed off and let me deal with them and when I stuck to my guns and got shot of my ex-husband without sinking into the depths of despair, she gave me that play.

“Yes,” I whispered back.

Brock’s arm gave me a squeeze.

I closed my eyes.

“All right, babe, I’ll be there at seven.”

“Martha?” I called.

“Yeah, Tess,” she answered.

“Love you, honey.”

“Love you too, babe.”

“But, you keep stalking me, that love with die,” I warned on a tease.

“Whatever,” she muttered, knowing it was a tease then disconnected.

I hit the screen to end call and dropped my phone on the counter. When I did this, Brock turned me so we were face to face and both his arms were around me.

“Not my biggest fan,” he muttered but he didn’t appear the least broken up about it.

“You want to hang with me, you might want to put some work into that,” I suggested.

“Right,” he replied then said, “No, babe. I’ll tell you now, she don’t like me, she don’t like me and I don’t give a f**k.”

Hm. Another drawback.

“She’s my best friend,” I reminded him.

“If she is, she’ll come to see what’s good for you and she’ll sort her shit out. If she’s a different kind of woman, she won’t. Instead, she’ll see green and won’t clue in that men do not want high maintenance drama queens so much they steer well clear and until she shifts that shit outta her life, it’s gonna be a lonely one. Unlike her friend who sees a man drinking outta her milk jug, processes that it’s highly unlikely she’s gonna break him of that habit seein’ as he’s forty-five and still does it and has since he was a kid, lets it go and moves on all in the expanse of about a second instead of throwing a shit fit about it which gets her nowhere, is a waste of energy and leaves both involved feeling like garbage.”

Well, I had to admit, all that was interesting and insightful and weirdly mature.

Still.

“Um… well, now that we’re on that subject, it’s somewhat unhygienic for you to drink out of the milk jug.”

“Babe, I had my tongue in your mouth for ten minutes this morning. How’s that any different?”

I tipped my head to the side while considering this point.

Then I shared, “Your point holds merit.”

He burst out laughing and in the middle of it, buried his face in my neck so when he was done he could kiss me there.

This was nice as in way nice.

He used to do that all the time too.

And I’d missed it.

Then his head came up and his eyes captured mine.

“You all right with me jumpin’ in the shower before I head out?”

Brock na**d in my shower and all the delightful visions that would generate that I could pull out and turn over in my head anytime I wanted?

Uh…

Yeah!

“Sure,” I said.

His mouth hitched up on one side and I liked that too.

Then his semi-smile faded, his arms squeezed and he asked, “You want me here for salad?”

“Do you want to be here for salad?” I asked back.

“What I want is for you to tell me what you want,” he replied.

I thought about this.

Then I said hesitantly, “Maybe not.”

“Right,” he muttered.

“It’s not that I –” I hastened to add but he cut me off with another arm squeeze and he dipped his face close.

“Baby, it’s cool. I’ll show tonight around the same time as I showed last night. Good?”

I nodded.

“Tomorrow, no plans with your girls. Tomorrow night is mine,” he declared.

My belly got warm and gushy and I nodded again.

He grinned and muttered again, “Right.”

Then he dropped his head more, touched his mouth to mine briefly and murmured,

“Shower,” against my lips.

A thrill slid up my spine.

Brock let me go and sauntered out of the room.

I stared at the coffeemaker and smiled when I heard the shower go on in the bathroom.

Then I made coffee.

* * * * *

An hour and a half later, I was sitting in my car staring at the side of my bakery, my phone in my hand, deliberating.

I had never played games with Brock. Never. Not from the very beginning.

I took one look at him, liked what I saw a whole lot and the minute he showed interest, I showed it back and never veered from that path.

I did this because, since I saw it and all the times I saw it since, the scene in My Big Fat Greek Wedding when Ian asked Toula out and she immediately answered yes, no games, no subterfuge, exposing straight out she was not only interested but the idea of spending time with him excited her, I thought that was the sweetest thing I ever saw.

And I also did this because I was me.

So I was sitting in my car with my phone in my hand thinking that what Brock said was right. What he and I had had been f**ked and for three months it f**ked with my head.

But seven months ago, when he brought me home after our first date and kissed me in his pickup and that kiss lasted half an hour (this is no joke) and he finally tore his mouth from mine, shoved his face in my neck and growled, “Fuck, ” against my skin with his strong arms tight around me, I knew what we had was real, it had started good and it was only going to get better.