My heart felt like it was on a trampoline at the same moment my eyes narrowed. Wiping my hand along my chin, I placed the bottle on the island and stalked toward the door, pulling it open.

Brock stood outside, lashes lowered, shielding his gaze.

“That was quick,” I snapped.

His full lips twitched. “Let’s just say I figured you’d be wanting to see me tonight, so I hung around this end of town.”

“Is that so? You’re psychic now?”

Brock lifted his gaze and his lips parted. “Damn,” he exhaled. A strange look crossed his chiseled features, like he was seeing something hidden for the first time. Something he knew always existed but was out of reach. “You and that dress . . .” He stepped into my apartment, forcing me to back up as he closed the door behind him. “I knew you would look beautiful.”

Beautiful?

There was that word again, a word I was sure he knew what it meant.

Skin flushed as I glared at him. “I don’t want to hear you say that. I don’t even want to know that you think that.”

Brock appeared to ignore that statement, because he asked, “When did you get those curves, Jilly?”

Emboldened by my anger, I held my ground. “Oh, I don’t know. When I was nineteen. But you didn’t notice them then, did you?”

“No.” He shook his head, almost in wonder. “I didn’t want to notice.”

My brows flew up. “You didn’t want to? That makes no sense.”

“It doesn’t?” Those dark eyes pierced mine. “You were Andrew Lima’s little girl.”

“I’m still his daughter, the last time I checked.”

“True,” he murmured, and then his gaze swept over me once more, starting at the tip of my head down to the pointy tips of my heels, then swept up again, lingering on my chest. “But not so little anymore.”

Despite my anger, I felt my nipples harden. I crossed my arms and lifted my chin. “Are you drunk?”

Brock blinked and his gaze shot to mine. “I haven’t touched a drop of liquor since that night.”

I sucked in a sharp breath.

“Not one fucking time since that night.”

“Well, okay.” Feeling a little chagrined, I dropped a bit of the attitude. “Look, I didn’t text you to come over and talk about my—my dress or how you’ve suddenly noticed I’m not a child anymore. What the hell was up with tonight?”

Not answering, he glanced around my apartment. Spying Rhage sitting on the arm of the couch, he brushed past me, shoving the sleeves of his V-neck sweater up his forearms, revealing the brightly colored tattoos on his left arm.