I turned back to the passenger window as a reluctant half-grin pulled at my lips. “It’s not the same as then, though.

“How so?” he challenged.

Fiddling with the strap on my seatbelt, I decided I could be honest about why I was nervous. It wasn’t easy. As soon as I started speaking, my cheeks heated. “You . . . you remember that I can’t hear out of my right ear?” I kept going, not giving him a chance to say something. “When I’m with groups of people and there’s a lot of background noise, it can be hard for me to follow the conversation. The meetings at the office aren’t too bad,” I added in a rush. “It’s quiet, so it’s not hard to follow, but restaurants sometimes can be the worst.”

“I know,” Brock said after a moment. “I wasn’t thinking the Friday I saw you at the restaurant and stood on your right side. Sorry about that.”

I glanced at him sharply, having forgotten that he’d done that. “It’s okay. People forget. It happens.”

“That wasn’t cool of me,” he continued, one hand draped over the steering wheel. “I took that into consideration. We have one of the more private booths in the back of the restaurant where it should be quieter. I’ll be sitting to your right, so our guests will be to your left and across from you.”

I opened my mouth, but I didn’t know what to say. Part of me was relieved to learn he had taken my hearing into consideration, lessening the possibility of that becoming an issue. The other half of me was embarrassed he had to take that into consideration. And all of me was annoyed that I was embarrassed in the first place. My partial hearing was a fact of life now. I shouldn’t be ashamed.

Annoyed, my fingers tightened around the strap. “I hate that I’m embarrassed by it,” I admitted, unable to stop myself.

“You shouldn’t be.”

“I know. I know I shouldn’t. I guess . . .”

“You don’t like the attention it brings,” he said, surprising me because he hit the nail right on the head. “You were never big on being the center of attention.”

A dry laugh parted my lips. “I prefer to be an observer.” Feeling his hand on mine, I stopped talking and looked down. His fingers were gently working mine from the strap. Sucking in a shallow breath, I looked over at him.

Brock was still focused on the road. “If you keep twisting the seatbelt like that, you’re going to twist it right off.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled, because that was all I could say. He’d lowered my left hand to my thigh and hadn’t let go. His large hand completely covered mine and the tips of his fingers were resting against my upper thigh.