I sucked in an unsteady breath, split between wondering if I was as transparent as a glass door and being extremely uncomfortable with the reminder of how well Brock knew me.

“So,” he said, dipping his head slightly as he stepped in. He was so close I could feel the heat from his body. “What did you decide, Jillian?”

Forcing myself to hold his gaze, I ignored the way every inch of my body was immediately aware of Brock, like it had been the moment I started seeing him as more than just a boy who was supposed to be like a brother to me. “I’m staying.”

“Good.” His smile was slow and soft. “That’s what I was hoping to hear.”

“Really?” I couldn’t believe it, because I would think he’d find this just as awkward.

He studied me a moment and then said, “Let’s chat.”

My mouth opened, with my initial instinct driving me to refuse, but I snapped my mouth shut and nodded. I may have been a coward when it came to Brock and all that, but I wasn’t stupid. He was my boss now, and I wouldn’t get myself fired. I wouldn’t embarrass my father like that.

Brock stepped aside and then moved to my left side as I followed him to the GM’s office—to his office. He held the door open for me, and waited until he was back on my left side before he spoke. At dinner Friday evening, he didn’t seem to remember or realize I couldn’t hear half of what he’d been saying. Did someone remind him?

“Have a seat,” he offered.

Looking around the office, I realized today was not Brock’s first day here. No way. It wasn’t the fact that his desk was covered with neat stacks of paper or that a gym bag rested in the corner, next to a pair of sneakers. It was the pictures on the fully stocked credenza—framed photos of Brock proudly holding a champion belt high. Another photo of him with his arm around my father, both wearing sponsor shirts and beaming at the camera. Several more photos of Brock with my uncles—

My breath caught.

There, in the middle of all those photos, was a picture I recognized immediately, because it used to be mine. It used to sit on my nightstand back home, because it had been my favorite picture of Brock and me.

Brock was in a tux, his hair a spiky, glorious mess, and I was standing next to him, in a deep red ankle-length gown with a heart-shaped neckline. It was from my senior prom, and I couldn’t stop staring at it, because that night, I felt beautiful. I felt like I belonged on Brock’s arm. But it was more than that. That night, I’d been confident. I’d been strong. I’d been full of possibilities.