I inhale. Sure enough, I smell their starchy sweetness. “I love sweet potatoes.”
“Good. I kind of took a guess on that. Not everyone likes them.”
“I do, especially baked. Heck, I even like that horribly cloying sweet potato marshmallow casserole everyone serves at Thanksgiving.”
He laughs then. A deep bellied masculine laugh. And he looks…so gorgeous.
Brock Steel is the spitting image of his father, only prettier. Jonah Steel is ruggedly handsome, and Brock is Jonah with slightly finer features.
All the Steels are gorgeous—men and women. Yet I’m considered the most beautiful woman in Snow Creek?
Crazy stuff.
“What can I get you to drink?” Brock asks.
“Would you think less of me if I just wanted a nice cold beer?”
He laughs. “I love a cold brew myself.” He pulls two Fat Tires out of the fridge and hands one to me.
“Thank you.” I take a long drink. “How do you know I love Fat Tire?”
“Good guess. You seem like the ale type.”
“So you know your beer,” I say. “Ale, not lager.”
“You don’t grow up on the Steel ranch and not learn everything about different kinds of alcohol. Uncle Ryan is a beer drinker, believe it or not. Wine is of course his drink of choice, but he likes a good brew.”
“Really?” I lift my eyebrows. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him with a beer.”
“Like I said, his preferred drink is wine. But he and I have been known to drink beer together on occasion.”
“There’s a lot I don’t know about you,” I say.
“There’s a lot I don’t know about you too. Have you started working on your program for the recital?”
I take another sip of beer. “Yeah… About that.”
“Oh, no. You’re not backing out on me now. I already rented the cinema.”
“Who the hell is going to come, Brock?”
“The whole town, of course.”
“Snow Creek isn’t exactly an opera town.”
“Maybe not, but we talked about this last time. We’re definitely lacking in culture here. You can bring some operatic pieces, some musical theater pieces.”
“No one’s heard me sing like that since I was in high school. They hear me singing rock with Jesse.”
“Yes, they do. And this will show them how multitalented you are.”
My cheeks warm. Is it the beer? Or is it Brock Steel? Probably both.
“I’m going to get the steaks on the grill. Would you take the sweet potatoes out of the oven for me?”
“Sure thing.”
“Oven mitts are in there.” He points to a drawer.
I can’t help but watch his tight ass as he walks out onto his deck.
This man is beyond gorgeous.
Perfect genetic material…
And I am ovulating…
As much as I want to wash this thought from my mind, I can’t.
It permeated me the entire time Callie and I were searching Doc Sheraton’s house…which we had no legal right to do. Pat didn’t call the cops on us, though, and we knew he wouldn’t.
Which means…he probably still has photos of us.
Does he realize it’s illegal for him to even possess those photos of Callie?
Probably not.
We checked the main rooms of his house but didn’t check his bedroom. We did, however, check the bedroom where Brittany was staying.
And we found absolutely nothing.
Of course, we’re simply amateur sleuths. Neither of us knew exactly what we were doing, so we could’ve overlooked something important. Callie’s going to talk to Donny about it and get back to me.
I want to wipe that from my mind and enjoy tonight, but the fact remains that we did it…and while we did it, I ruminated on my ovulation cycle that’s most likely occurring right now.
An egg is descending from my ovary, through my fallopian tube, looking for fertilization.
It’s not fair. It’s not fair to get pregnant on purpose. I should talk to Brock first.
But if I do…
Then I let out a laughing scoff. How do I know he’ll even take me to bed? He didn’t the other night.
But if he does…I could tell him I’m on the pill. And clean.
That’s a lie, of course. Plus, he’s a known womanizer. How do I know he’s clean? Sure, I want a baby, but I don’t want anything else going on down there.
No. Hard no. I can’t get pregnant without him knowing.
I have to tell him first.
And Callie’s right. This isn’t the way to do it.
About ten minutes later, Brock comes back in with the two filets on a plate.
“Rare,” he says. “The only way to eat a filet.”
“Rare’s great.”
I don’t want to tell him that I’m not sure I’ve ever had a filet mignon. Beef tenderloin is the most expensive cut of steak, and we Pikes don’t save the most expensive cuts for ourselves. The best cuts of our beef production are for profit.
“What can I do?” I ask.
“Nothing. Just sit your cute little ass down.” He nods to the kitchen table.
So we’re not eating in the formal dining room. No biggie. There’s only two of us.