Saying my goodbyes, I lowered the phone and placed it on the end table. I was about to pick up the remote when there was a knock against my front door that sent Rhage darting under the coffee table.

Having no idea who could be here, I rose and walked the short distance to the door. Rhage peeked his head out, ears flattened as I rose on the tips of my sock-covered toes and peered through the tiny hole . . . which showed me nothing more than maybe a distorted view of a chest, but who really knew?

Peepholes were so pointless.

Settling back on my feet, I threw the deadbolt and cracked the door open. My stomach immediately pitched.

Under the bright overhead light, Brock stood in front of my apartment door. “Hey.” He planted a hand against the frame of the door and gave me that half-smile while he kept his other hand behind his back. “You busy?”

For several seconds, I couldn’t even find the words to formulate what I needed to say and then I blurted out, “How do you know where I live?”

“You’re my employee. I have all your tax information, which has your address,” he explained. My gaze snagged on the thin silver chain hanging from his neck, disappearing under the collar of his gray Henley. “And if I didn’t have that, pretty sure Andrew would’ve given it to me.”

My dad so would have, too. “Can I just point out that showing up at my apartment unannounced is kind of creepy?”

The look to his lazy grin said he probably hadn’t thought of that and he also didn’t care. “You going to let me in?”

I gripped the door handle. “Why are you here?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

My brows flew up. “And you couldn’t have done that at work?”

“Nope,” he replied.

“And since you’ve been looking at my employment documents, you would’ve seen my phone number. So you also couldn’t have called me?”

“I don’t like talking on the phone.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Are you for real?”

“As real as a heart attack.”

Jerking my head back, I stared way up at him. “Did you seriously just say that out loud?”

“Maybe I did.” One shoulder rose as the grin reached his eyes. “Are you going to let me in, Jillybean?”

“Not if you call me that,” I shot back.

He tipped his head down, and there was a soft flutter in my chest. “Why do you have a problem with me calling you that?”

“Maybe because I’m not twelve years old anymore?”

“Hmm.” Brock straightened. “I doubt that’s the reason.”

“Whatever,” I muttered. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I’ll tell you if you let me in.” His gaze turned shrewd. “Would you be more open to letting me in if you knew I brought something for you?”