Clayton Yorke will learn very quickly what a mistake it was to mess with someone I care about.
And Brodydidcare about Ro. But only as a friend, and nothing more.
That why you took so long buckling her seatbelt tonight?
He swung open the cabinet, hitting paydirt on his first try. Grabbing one of her jar-style glasses down, he centered it beneath the red and silver faucet—yep, apparently that was a thing, too—and got busy filling it up.
Replaying that moment back through his head, Brody took a moment to consider the question his subconscious had posed.
After her needless but adorable rant about why she was justified in kissing Clayton Yorke’s ass, he’d walked Ro over to his truck and helped her climb inside. Knowing she’d spend far longer fumbling with the buckle than if he just did it himself.
But he hadn’t taken alongtime buckling her belt. Had he?
What about those few seconds after you heard the click? You know, when you looked up and caught sight of those gorgeous eyes staring back into yours? What about then, asshole?
Shit. Maybe he had gotten caught off guard by the way she’d been staring back at him. But he’d looked up, and she was there, and for a second, Brody had been damn sure she was going to lean up and kiss him. And he…
Didn’t back away.
No, he hadn’t. Not at first, anyway. And that shit had been bugging him ever since. It was also one of the reasons he’d stayed quiet for most of the ride here.
One, Ro had kept her head tilted away from his the entire way. And when he did talk, he wasn’t certain she’d even comprehended what he’d said.
Two, Brody had been lost in his own thoughts about what the hell that was, what it meant, what it didn’t mean…and then he’d realized what an idiot he was, because it wasn’t anything and meant absolutely nothing.
He’d been taken aback by a pretty set of eyes. Anyone—man or woman—would have to be blind not to see Ro’s ocean blue eyes and think them anything less than gorgeous. Didn’t mean those who thought that wanted to sleep with her, for fuck’s sake.
Funny how you jumped straight to sex. Especially when all you were picturing in your head just now were her eyes.
Christ, maybehewas the one who was drunk. His thoughts were sure swirling out of control as if he was.
Brody turned off the water with a bit more force than necessary, and sat the glass down onto the—yep, you guessed it—white countertops while he went looking for a medicine cabinet.
You sure you’re not drunk?
If it wasn’t for the fact that he’d had the one birthday shot with the others and nothing else besides water the entire night, he might be convinced otherwise. Because this was Ro, for crying out loud.
Ro!
She was his friend. His sister’s friend, really. A good buddy who called him on his shit and made him laugh.
Oh, really? Would you have rushed to Christian’s or Rocky’s rescues if some pansy-ass like Yorke had been stupid enough to grab one of their wrists?
Brody ignored the unspoken question because it was like comparing apples to oranges. Of course, he wouldn’t have been as concerned in that situation because those guys could handle themselves without breaking a sweat.
But Ro…
He pictured her dainty wrist in that bastard’s hand. The way the muscles in her delicate forearm had become taut beneath the strain of her efforts to break free.
Even now, Brody’s free hand fisted at his side while his other gripped the glass with such force, he was surprised it didn’t shatter. But that was only because his protective instincts where Ro was concerned had always been on high alert.
Not because he liked her, liked her. But because she was like his family.
Like her, like her? What are you, twelve?
Ready to tell his inner voice to kick rocks, Brody was still trying not to question why the urge to pound Clayton Yorke into the ground was as strong as ever when he made it back into the living room and….
Holy. Hell.