Page 56 of Alpha Brock
Probably not what he expected to come out of my mouth. Brock furrows his brow, squinting. “What?”
“Tacos,” I laugh, like my request isn’t completely random. “I asked Jared this morning to make a grocery run today and pick up everything. This kitchen is beautiful, someone should actually cook in it.”
Brock just stares at me for a moment, like he’s sizing me up. Trying to figure out my angle, though he’s not going to find some secret agenda here- I’m hungry and I like tacos.
“Sure,” he finally mutters, and I can’t help but grin from ear to ear. Because yeah,fuckingBrock is great- and I definitely want more of that- but I’d like to actually get toknowthe guy, too. Especially if that flash of a vision I had last week is going to come true.
I step past him to open the refrigerator door, pulling out all of the ingredients and handing them back to him one by one. Ground beef, lettuce, cilantro, tomato, cheese, hot sauce, and sour cream. Then I move to the pantry to find the taco seasoning and tortillas while Brock arranges everything on the kitchen island.
He’s pulling a frying pan out of a lower cabinet as I walk back over from the pantry, twisting at the waist to set it on the stovetop. “Want me to cook up the meat?”
My brows shoot up. “You know how to cook?”
My surprise actually earns a low chuckle from mister broody. “Of course I know how to cook.” He reaches out and plucks the packet of taco seasoning from my hand, tossing it onto the counter beside the stove. “Why does that shock you?”
I shrug, setting the tortillas on the kitchen island and grabbing the package of ground beef, handing it over to Brock. “Well for starters, I’ve never seen any of you guys cook since I’ve been here,” I say, watching as he sets the beef aside and turns the stove burner on.
“Been busy,” Brock grumbles. “Doesn’t mean I don’t know how.”
He grabs a knife to slice open the package of meat and I narrow my eyes, studying him. “What other surprises do you have up your sleeve, big guy?” I ask playfully.
He shoots me a sideways glance. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see, Princess.” A smirk tugs at his lips.
I’m starting to learn that there are a few different versions of Brock. There’s this one- my personal favorite. The one that’s sarcastic and snarky. The one who likes to play and laugh. Then there’s the broody guy that shuts down. The intense one. The one who is so crippled by his past that he can’t move into the future. And then there’s the one that’s completely devoid of emotion, like a goddamn robot. All business all the time. That last one scares me a little. He’s hard and ruthless- I feel like he could watch the life drain from someone’s eyes without flinching.
“So who taught you how to cook?” I ask, making conversation as I find a cutting board and knife to dice up the tomato.
“Both of my parents, actually.”
I wait for him to go on, but he doesn’t. This guy really is a man of few words, so I have to poke a little. “Yeah?”
“Mm,” he grunts. “They used to cook dinner together a lot. When Brent and I were old enough, they started roping us in to help. Family bonding, I guess.”
“Aww, I love that,” I coo, grinning at him over my shoulder.
We’re standing nearly back to back- Brock’s at the stove, cooking up the ground beef, and I’m at the island, chopping the tomato. I hear the sizzle of the meat as he adds it to the hot frying pan.
“What about you?” Brock asks. “Where’d you learn how to cook?”
I grin, staring down at the tomato as I chop. He’s actually keeping the conversation going.
“Not from my parents,” I laugh. “My mom can barely use a microwave. The packhouse chef let me help out when I was a kid, and I found that I really like it. It relaxes me.”
I set the knife down, spinning around and moving beside Brock to open an overhead cabinet to get a bowl. It’s on the middle shelf, so I have to stand on my tippy toes to reach for it. “My family was never really the bonding type,” I continue as my fingertips brush the edge of the bowl, not quite grasping it.
I feel Brock move closer as he reaches over me to retrieve the bowl, handing it to me. I take it gratefully as he steps back, his lips curling into a smirk. “We’ve gotta get you a stepstool or something.”
I give him a playful little shove, rolling my eyes as I move past him to return to the kitchen island. “I can’t help that I’m little,” I grumble as I scoop the diced tomato into the bowl.
I’m not sure whether or not my mind is playing tricks on me, but I swear I hear him whisper a response under his breath. It sounds like he says, “you’re perfect”, and my head immediately whips around to look at him over my shoulder. He’s just stirring the ground beef, acting so fucking casual that I’m second guessing whether or not he actually spoke.Am I going crazy? Or is this man just driving me to the brink…
I chop the lettuce next, then the cilantro. As we cook, Brock and I chat about our families- I tell him about how my parents travel often, so I don’t see much of them. He tells me that his own tend to be homebodies, and their idea of a family vacation growing up was going camping on their pack’s territory in Wyoming. His father joined their pack with the six-pack alliance and moved them to Colorado when Brock was nineteen, and he said that he likes Colorado, but misses the wide-open spaces in Wyoming sometimes.
I want to ask him about his ex. I feel like she’s the elephant in the room, lurking in the corner, but tonight has been too good so far- I don’t want to spoil it. So I don’t. I leave it, and I’ll wait until he’s ready. I should get a goddamn award for the amount of patience I’ve had with this man- but something tells me he’s worth it.
We sit at the kitchen island to eat, and the tacos are delicious- I down three of them in record time and I’m pretty sure that Brock has at least six. Then we clean up and move into the other room, where Brock flops down onto the couch and gives a little flick of his head to beckon me to him. As soon as I sit down beside him, his arm comes around me and I curl up into his side as he uses the remote to turn the TV on and find a movie.
It’s unexpected, but it’s so nice. So…normal. I rest my cheek against his warm chest as his fingers absently comb through my hair, and it feels completely natural. Comfortable. Like this is how it’s supposed to be. He’s slowly opening up to me, and I’ll enjoy it while I can. Because with Brock, there’s no telling how long it’ll last.