I sat at my desk and stared at the photo of Brock and me at Ariana’s wedding in Hawaii last month. I kept the photo in my top drawer and pulled it out to look at it more often than I should. My fingers brushed over Brock. He looked amazing. His white linen shirt showed off how tan and muscular he was. And that penetrating look he was giving me . . . For the first time, I’d been able to tell he wanted me as much as I wanted him. At least I had thought so.
That night, we had sneaked away to take a long walk on the beach, just the two of us. The moon and stars were our only lights. While the waves crashed against the shore and washed over our bare feet, all I could think about was how thrilled I was that Brock had taken my hand. Even better, it was as if he never wanted to let go. Not a word was spoken. There seemed to be too much to say, and neither of us knew where to begin. I supposed after fourteen years of keeping it to friends only, it made sense. But actions spoke much louder than words.
Brock tugged on my hand, making me stop and gaze up at him. He tucked some of my dark, windswept hair behind my ear before brushing his fingers across my bare shoulder. Each touch sent shivers of pleasure down my spine. Then he leaned in, his lips teasing mine, so close but not quite touching. It was a metaphor for our complicated relationship. A line we had never crossed but had tiptoed around for years.
After several seconds of beautiful torture, Brock closed his eyes. With a loud exhale, his lips crashed into mine. Nothing had ever felt so right. I slid my arms up his chest and around his neck. His lips stayed firm on mine as if he were soaking me in but afraid to taste me. All I wanted to do was devour him, yet I could feel his trepidation, so I had remained still. I wasn’t sure how long we stayed like that, but he broke away from me too soon. He hastily shoved his hands in his shorts pockets, and we walked silently back to the hotel while I tried to make sense of why he’d stopped. Why it seemed we were never meant to move past our friendship. For years, I’d known it was because his career and our country came first to Brock. And there was always the delicate balance of the friendship between me, Brock, and his twin, Brant. Though Brant was sure to marry Jill. Their father would make sure of it, no matter Brant’s opinion on the subject. What was love when you could have a strong political ally?
No matter Brock’s reasoning, when we’d returned home last month, it was business as usual for us. We’d never spoken of the kiss, though each time we were together, his eyes always seemed to drift toward my mouth. My lips ached to whisper that I was his, if only he would ask me to be. Yet I didn’t have the courage. However, I wasn’t sure if I could take much more of the cat-and-mouse game we’d played for years.
A knock and a head peeking in my door startled me out of my turbulent thoughts. I shoved the picture under some paperwork on my desk.
“Hey,” Brock’s deep voice surprised me. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
I blinked a few times, wondering what he was doing here in the middle of the day. I thought he would be in surgery or at his office. “You’re not.” I rearranged some of the papers on my desk to make sure the picture didn’t see the light of day in his presence. “What are you doing here?”
He walked in and shut the door behind him. His tall, athletic body made my small office seem even smaller. Dr. Brock Holland had a presence to him that made him loom larger.
Brock approached my desk, clasping his hands.
I didn’t think I had ever seen him nervous. “Everything all right?” I asked.
He stared aimlessly at a paper clip on my desk. “I wanted to say goodbye before I left on my joint allied training mission.” Brock was a major in the Army Reserve. As an anesthesiologist, he had treated soldiers and civilians all over the world on the battlefield and on humanitarian missions. This year he was headed to