Opal: A Contemporary Reverse Harem Romance (Jewels Cafe Book 4) Page 4

  I didn’t know what to say, mostly because when it came to these guys, I was always prepared for a fight…or, since yesterday, prepared to fuck them silly.

  Oh, dear. I should not have thought that particular thought.

  “Actions speak louder than words,” I said.

  Brock nodded. His black hair was messy today, and I could easily picture my hands running through it. “They do, which is why…” His cheeks took on a hint of pink, and as I stared up at him, I wondered: is he blushing?

  He was kind of cute when he was blushing. He was also cute when he wasn’t blushing, too. I mean, what woman didn’t like artists that were hot messes? Brock was definitely a hot mess…but right now, so was I, in my nipply, braless state.

  “Are you free later?” Brock blurted out, stumbling over the words as if he’d practiced them a million times and still couldn’t quite nail the landing. “Today, I mean. Are you free later today?” When I said nothing, only stared at him, he added, “If you’re not, that’s okay. I just have a little something planned for this evening. I thought—well, I thought we could do it together, if you want.” He was rambling, his cheeks growing even pinker.

  It was freaking adorable.

  “Do it together?” I echoed, playing dumb. I really just wanted him to fumble a bit more. Would he fumble this much during sex?

  …if I could smack myself after that thought I would, believe me.

  “You know, kind of like a date.”

  “Kind of like a date?” I was having too much fun with this.

  “A date,” Brock clarified. “An actual date.”

  “And I’m assuming you mean a date with you?” I asked, tilting my head. The more I stared at him, the cuter I thought he was. Would I want to go on a date with him? After last night’s dream, how the hell was I supposed to say no? I knew I didn’t want drama with my neighbors, but my libido was currently screaming yes, yes, yes!

  Brock nodded. “Yeah, with me.”

  I didn’t think about it, because I knew if I lingered on it, I would realize what a terrible idea it was. So I simply said, “Yes, I’ll go on a date with you. What time shall I be prepared for your handsome presence?” Okay, that might’ve been a little too dramatic, but it served its purpose; Brock blushed even more.

  Ugh. The fucking cutie.

  “Um, three? If that’s okay. If not, we can—”

  “Three is fine,” I told him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get some work done before I get ready for our date, unless you want me to go like this?” It was early November, so there was no way in hell I’d be walking in town in booty shorts and no bra. I did realize that I stopped crossing my arms, gesturing to myself as I spoke, which gave him another nice view of my tits through my shirt.

  If anyone was a hot mess here, it was clearly me.

  “I…”

  “Don’t answer that,” I told him, to which he nodded. “I’ll see you at three.”

  He managed to stutter out a goodbye before walking away, and I closed the door, mentally cursing at myself for being so stupid. That’ll teach me to slip back into my pajamas after getting up. Apparently my neighbors thought they had free reign to visit me whenever the hell they wanted.

  It was a damn good thing it wasn’t Kent at my door, otherwise he might’ve gotten some ideas when he saw my pointed, pebbly nipples.

  Damn those nipples. Traitors. They needed to be bundled up and swaddled in a bra immediately.

  I glanced down at my breasts, muttering an annoyed, “Thanks, guys. Good to know you have my back.” The sarcasm in my voice could not have been applied any stronger. My words dripped facetiousness, and I rolled my eyes at myself as I hurried to my bedroom to put on a bra.

  After deciding to make myself an early lunch, just a sandwich, nothing huge and nothing big, because I didn’t know whether or not Brock would be taking me out somewhere, I sat down at my desk and opened my laptop. Munching on the sandwich, I quickly scanned over the scenes I’d added yesterday.

  Hot diggity dog. They were smoking. So hot I was surprised my laptop didn’t spontaneously combust while I was writing them. In all of my life, I couldn’t remember writing such scorching hot sex scenes. Maybe there was something to writing in a coffee shop after all…maybe I’d have to go back to Jewels Cafe.

  Not today, though.

  My new sex scenes were hot, but my mind couldn’t focus. Not after yesterday, not after that dream, and not after seeing Brock look so adorable as he stumbled over his words. Nope.

  I texted Sofia, letting her know I was going on a date with Brock, to which she immediately replied I knew it. I resisted my urge to groan, because she so didn’t know it, but I decided to give it to her, just this once.

  It felt like it’d been years since I had a date. It wasn’t really years, but it was a long time since I cared. Most people these days just didn’t click with me; I didn’t get along with them. I was not a people person, not really. I was perfectly fine nestled away in my writing cave with very little human interaction. Most people only disappointed you in the end anyway.

  Depressing, but that was reality. You couldn’t lean on anyone else but yourself when the shit hit the fan.

  But this date was one I was going to try on. Dress up, look good, all of that shit. Hell, maybe my body just wanted to feel someone else’s skin on mine. I couldn’t even remember the last time I got loving that wasn’t from my own hand or a vibrator. And don’t get me wrong, vibrators were nice—and that was putting it lightly—but sometimes you just needed some old-fashioned dick to sate your carnal hunger. Am I right?

  I was right. I knew I was right, and that was why I was probably over-prepping for this date.

  It was a bad idea all around, getting involved with a neighbor. Seriously, there were movies and books based on this shit, and yet there I was, practically skipping through the house, humming as I chose my outfit, my earrings, even did my makeup. I was like a girl going on her very first date, giddy and excited.

  It was sickening, really.

  I chose a pair of dark denim jeans that were perhaps a tad too tight, but I didn’t care. It showed off my booty—not that I had much of one to begin with, but you had to primp your features as best as you could. I matched it with a nice black shirt, its back wide open. I’d have to do something about my bra, but oh well; I had a black coat that would match the outfit perfectly, along with knee-high boots that made me seem a bit taller than I actually was.

  Needless to say, I was going to look smoking. So smoking Brock would be speechless yet again. He might even drool. I put nothing off the table.

  Did I want sex today? …Maybe. My brain was definitely a horn dog after yesterday.

  There had to be something in the air, something in the water, or even in that damned pumpkin spice latte. I was not this frisky before—or maybe I was and I was just better at reeling it in. Maybe seeing them all in one day, the three of them, did something to my brain to make me think: dicks. Yes, give me the dicks. All the dicks!

  My vagina was a greedy bastard, wasn’t she?

  By the time I was ready, I looked at my phone and saw that it was only one. I still had two hours to wait until the date. Apparently I was too excited, because time could literally not have moved slower for me that afternoon. It was a freaking snail, crawling by at a leisurely pace, not a damned care in the world.

  Time needed to hurry up.

  I chose to sit myself on the couch and watch Netflix until the time arrived, and when it did, when my doorbell rang right at three on the dot, I stumbled off the couch, grabbing my jacket and throwing it on as I hurried along.

  Brock stood there, looking quite meek, dressed in much the same outfit as he was before. Only, I noticed, he’d changed shirts…he now wore a stained t-shirt beneath his jacket, and I couldn’t help but wonder why he’d chosen to change, specifically to look worse than he did before.

  Still, even with a white shirt that held half a dozen colors, he looked good. Inside my chest,
my heart did a little pitter-patter. My nipples were not the only traitorous part of my body, I guess. I guess the whole body followed their lead now. If Brock told me he’d changed his mind and wanted to stay in, if he said he just wanted to sleep with me, I couldn’t say whether or not I would fight him.

  Eh, I probably wouldn’t.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, his brown eyes raking down me and making me feel quite self-conscious. Maybe I looked too good. I mean, compared to him, I was a model and he was just someone who carried my purse. “You look…amazing.”

  “Thank you,” I spoke, grinning like an idiot as my stomach did a weird flippy thing. “You look…” I trailed off, not exactly wanting to say he looked good. The shirt was a bit strange. Instead, I awkwardly stepped outside the house. “Shall we go?”

  He coughed. “Right.”

  I found that he had already pulled the car out of the garage, and I knew he and Ace shared a vehicle. Kent was the only one with a steady job, so the second car that usually parked in front of the garage was definitely his.

  Brock opened the passenger door for me, giving me a gentle smile as I climbed in. He was acting like a gentleman, which was nice, I had to admit. I’d grown so used to their general jerkiness that I wasn’t sure if any of them were capable of being nice.

  As Brock pulled out of the driveway, driving us wherever our destination was, I could’ve sworn I looked in the rearview mirror and saw Ace standing at the window, watching us leave. He just looked so sad…my heart hurt for him, which wasn’t to say him being sad or the situation around his depression made his past actions okay, but I still felt for him.

  But now wasn’t the time to focus on Ace and his sorrow. Now was Brock’s time, and I was about to learn just what he had in store for us. It was…not at all what I expected.

  Chapter 7

  Our date involved me helping him set up for his last art class of the year, until the weather turned good. Brock apparently had a whole class of kids who came to the park after school to get into the finer techniques of painting. Since the weather was getting colder, and the kids were more bundled up—plus the cold weather didn’t help the paint spread on the canvases—it was the last one until spring came, and even that, he told me, depended on the weather. You know spring, full of sporadic, random rain showers. April showers bring May flowers and all that jizz.

  No, wait. Not jizz. Jazz. I meant jazz. Jizz was…well, we all knew what jizz was, and clearly I had it on the brain.

  Easels with their own paint trays, the paint and paintbrushes; I helped him set it all up, and during it, I got a peek at the real Brock. The Brock who adored art more than anything in the world. Any form of art he loved, but painting was his specialty, and it was then that I realized why he’d changed shirts.

  The kids were of all ages. The youngest looked to be maybe seven while the oldest was in her early teens. Then again, I was terrible with ages. They started coming, with their backpacks and their school clothes, reaching into their bags to put on a white shirt over their own clothes, white shirts that were stained, just like Brock’s was. The parents stood in the back, watching over their kids as they talked to one another.

  It was…a nice surprise, really. It made me think of Brock a little differently.

  Plus, you know, there was nothing better than a group of kids and their parents to get your mind off sex.

  Before he started, Brock came to me, grabbed my hand, and pulled me to an easel he’d set up off to the side, away from the kids. “For you,” he said.

  “Me?” I echoed. “I’m not an artist. These kids are better at painting than me, I bet.” Not a lie. The last time I’d picked up a paintbrush was in art class way back in high school. So many years ago, I could barely remember it.

  Brock gave me a dimpled smile, and I shut right up. “Try your best, okay?” He released my hand, moving to the front of the group of kids.

  I called after him, “What do I paint?”

  “Anything you want,” he said. “Something around you, or something from your head. Whatever your heart desires.” Brock’s smile widened, and one of the younger girls in the front row of easels giggled. He turned to her, asking, “What’s so funny, Penny?”

  Penny, who was one of the younger ones in the group, hid her smile as she pointed to me. “Is she your girlfriend?”

  It was my turn to have my cheeks heat up. I was most definitely not—

  “Not yet,” Brock said, kneeling down beside her, giving her a smile that was much sweeter and less mischievous than the one he gave me. “I’m hoping you guys can help me convince her.” His dark eyes sparkled when he talked to her, and I felt something in me tug.

  He was good with kids. It only made me attracted to him more, frankly.

  But…wait. His girlfriend? What? I’d only agreed to one date, not that. That seemed a little extreme, didn’t it? Then again, my dream last night was extreme.

  I returned my gaze to the canvas and easel before me, picking up the paint palette and the brush. If Brock wanted my shitty art skills, he’d get them. He’d see my finished canvas and cringe at how awful it was, and I couldn’t blame him. An elephant with a paintbrush in its trunk could paint a prettier picture than me.

  I decided, since I lacked creativity when it came to the more physical and visual aspects of art—I was a writer, not a freaking painter, for a reason—my painting would be of the tree standing next to me. It wasn’t that nice of a tree right now, its leaves gone, thanks to the weather, but it was literally the only thing I could think of to do. Heaven help me if I decided to paint Brock, or his class, or any of the parents.

  No, nice and simple, please.

  The class didn’t last for too long; less than an hour, and eventually everyone started to pack up. Not going to lie, throughout the class, I kept shooting looks at Brock, watching how he was with the kids. For some reason, knowing he was good with kids made him even more attractive than he already was. It was a skill not all men had, and not all women either, for that matter.

  Would I be good with kids? If I had a mini-me running around, would I be a good mother?

  Not sure where the hell that thought came from, but too late to pretend it didn’t happen.

  “Keep painting,” Brock insisted, starting to clean up without me. “I usually handle it all on my own anyway. When I’m done, that better be the best tree I’ve ever seen.” Dimples danced along his cheeks, and they made my heart flutter.

  “Right,” I spoke dryly, staring at the hideous tree that looked more like a bush on my canvas. “No pressure.”

  Needless to say, the extra time did not an immaculate art piece make. It still looked like a blob by the time the other canvases were put away. The kids got to take theirs home, and mine…well, the longer I stared at it, the more I didn’t want to take it home. This wasn’t something a parent of a fifth-grader would want hanging on their fridge, let alone a wall. It was just about the worst rendition of a tree I’d ever seen.

  Brock held his hands on his sides, standing near me. I pretended not to notice how tall he was, tried not to note the slight quirk in his lips as he studied my canvas and sought to not burst out laughing.

  “I never claimed to be an artist,” I said. “That’s your department. You have no competition from me.”

  “Not with this type of stuff, but with words? You’re the artist there,” Brock said, giving me the kindest, gentlest smile I’d ever seen. He was so very different from his two roommates, and for a moment, I forgot all about Ace and Kent. Until then, when I thought about them.

  And then I remembered the dream, and what had almost happened in it.

  “Keep staring at me like that,” I warned him, “and a girl’s bound to feel special.”

  Now that the kids were gone, now that the parents were gone, we were alone in this small section of the town’s park. Brock took a step closer to me, whispering, “You are special, Opal. You’ve always been special. I don’t know why it took me this long to act on it,
but I…” He paused, tilting his chin down to me. “For the last few days, all I could think about was kissing you.”

  I felt my lips pucker of their own accord. “Just kiss?” Didn’t know why I had to go out and say that, but I did, and there was no taking it back. I’d be lying if I told him I wasn’t thinking about kissing him, but I’d also be lying if I said it was only a kiss I thought about.

  Brock answered my question by bringing his lips down to mine, grabbing my face and tilting me by the chin. His mouth met with mine, and for a moment, I was lost in him, in the way his warmth flooded through his lips and into me, how smooth and delicate those lips felt on mine. I leaned into him, pressing myself against his lean, solid chest. His other arm wrapped around me, and time itself could’ve stopped and I wouldn’t have noticed.

  This. This was how it was supposed to be. Just a man and a woman, both with feelings they couldn’t explain, emotions they couldn’t deny. It was beyond nice. I honestly could have stood there, kissing him forever, making out with him like we were teenagers with nothing better to do.

  But we weren’t teenagers, and we were in the middle of a public park, so we couldn’t get too handsy or greedy when it came to each other. Would inviting him over after this seem like too bold a proposition?

  When his lips left mine, he whispered, “Beautiful.”

  I could hardly breathe, still wrapped up in that slow, steady, achingly long kiss. “Me, or the tree I painted?” My lips broke out into a smile even though they missed being connected with his.

  “You,” Brock answered. He released his hold on me, moving closer to my canvas. “Your tree…does leave a little to be desired.” He tossed me a look. “But I’m more than willing to give you some private lessons.”

  Damn. I didn’t know Brock had something like that in him.

  I let my mind wander as I helped him clean up my station. I carried my canvas to the car and held it on my lap as we drove back home. It wasn’t like I planned on hanging it front and center in my place, but I just couldn’t find the heart to toss it out. It didn’t feel right.