“Rory, I don’t think anything.”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
How am I looking at her?
“What do you mean?”
“You were staring at my mouth as I chewed.”
Okay, she’s right. I was. Why not be honest? “You chewed for a long time.”
“Because you were watching me.”
Oh my God. This date is not going well. My brother does not know how to woo a woman. Either that, or I just suck at it.
“Did you and Raine ever talk about kids?” I ask.
“She didn’t want any.”
“Oh. Was that part of the reason—”
“Part of it. I really don’t want to talk about the breakup.”
“I understand.”
God, could I fuck this up any more?
“How’s your steak?” I ask.
“Delicious.”
“Good. I’m glad you like it. And the potatoes?”
“Delicious.”
“I’ll tell Aunt Marj how much you like them.”
So this is what we’ve been reduced to. Talking about the food. I need to fix this, and I need to fix it fast. Except I have no idea how to.
“Have Donny and Callie talked to you about when they plan to have their wedding?” I ask.
“Nope.”
Another one-word answer. What the hell is wrong with me?
We finish our dinner in silence.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Rory
What was I thinking? Telling Brock—who would make an excellent genetic father for my child—that it’s my dream to be a mother.
What do I really want out of life?
Well, that’s the truth. I want to be a mother. More than I want just about anything else.
But before I do that, I have to fix the whole Pat Lamone thing. I have to make sure my future child’s mother’s pictures are not splattered across social media.
We’re not talking at all as we finish our delicious dinner. At least it was delicious before I wrecked everything.
Now what? I guess I ask him to take me home because the evening is effectively shot.
I open my mouth to do so, when—
“Dessert?” he asks.
I don’t turn down dessert. Ever. But tonight, I’m not sure I have it in me to eat something sweet.
“Plus, I thought I could introduce you to my favorite cognac. An Armagnac from France.”
“Okay,” I say after a pause.
I did enjoy the cognac the other night. It warmed my throat, had a beautiful smoky taste and aroma.
“What’s for dessert?” I ask.
“I decided to go simple. Aunt Marjorie’s homemade vanilla bourbon ice cream.”
“Vanilla bourbon? That doesn’t sound so simple to me.”
“It’s simple when compared to something like baked Alaska or cherries jubilee.”
“You can make baked Alaska and cherries jubilee?”
He laughs. “I didn’t say that.”
I smile then. Good. We seem to have gotten over the awkward part. Took long enough.
“Do you want coffee?”
“No, I think I’ll try the Armagnac.” It may be the only time I have the chance to sample something so expensive.
He smiles again. “Good. It’s going to go great with this ice cream.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Absolutely nothing. Just sit there and look pretty.”
I roll my eyes.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No. But if I had a nickel for every time someone told me to just sit there and look pretty, I’d be a rich woman. There’s more to me than a pretty face, Brock. I already told you I don’t think of myself that way.”
“I know that. You’re hella talented. You’re caring and nurturing.”
“Nurturing? Why would you say that?”
“It’s pretty clear. You rescued a dog, and you want to be a mother.”
I laugh. Finally. “Yeah, I guess I kind of do have nurturing tattooed across my forehead.”
“Absolutely.”
“Funny thing is, no one really knows that about me.”
“They don’t?”
“No. The only person I’ve talked to about my love of children and my desire to be a mother is Callie. The dogs… Well, I’ve always loved dogs.”
“Rory, you’re much more than a pretty face.”
I smile, meeting his gaze.
“You have an amazing body and incredible rack too.”
My jaw drops, but then I notice the twinkle in his eye. I rise then, walk to the freezer where he’s standing, and give him a good-natured swat on his behind. “I’d be a rich woman if I had a nickel for all of those too.”
“Look,” Brock says. “I could pretend that you’re not the most gorgeous thing walking, but we both know that’s not true. Believe it or not, Rory, that’s not why I asked you out tonight.”
“Why did you, then?”
“I want to know you.”
“No offense, Brock, but you’re not known as that kind of guy. You’re kind of known as a love ’em and leave ’em type.”
“I know that.”
“And you seriously think it’s different with me?”
“I don’t know yet. I’d like it to be.”
Oh my God. His genetic material is looking better and better.
And I’m starting to think of him as more than just genetic material.
Which does not bode well for me.
I can’t afford to fall in love with him. Not with a Rake-a-teer. I’m not in the market for heartbreak. Only in the market for a baby.