Page 10 of Grouch-ish

“I’m not here to cater to you.”

My shoulders stiffen. “I can fend for myself.”

“Really? Gonna go kill an innocent reindeer for me? Or rustle us up a roast beast?”

I glare at her, uncertain how to respond to either reference. I’m no hunter. I like my meat from the freezer section.

“How about we start with what you have here? I can hit up a grocery store tomorrow.” My gaze drifts to the window behind the kitchen table that offers a direct view of the heavy, wet snow, falling harder and piling higher in the drive.

“I intended to go myself.” Her voice lowers, and I catch her looking in the same direction. With the way it is snowing, neither of us should be going anywhere. “But it might have to be Christmas leftovers this evening.”

“That works for me.” My typical breakfast of morning coffee wasn’t enough today and I’m starving.

“For now, I guess I could make pancakes.”

“Smells like something is already baking.” Once again, the strong scent of cinnamon tickles my nose.

“Shit.” Paradise rushes the few feet to the kitchen. “I almost forgot the pie.”

Following her, I chuckle as she lowers the oven door and pulls out a pie sizzling on a well-used cooking sheet.

“That smells like heaven.” I sniff once more and my mouth waters at the combination of something sweet and spicy filling the air.

“You think?” Her voice falters, lowering with hesitancy.

Stepping closer to her, I exaggerate inhaling, waving my hand toward my nose as if the fragrant fumes will drift faster into my olfactory senses.

“What is that?” I’m practically salivating at what I assume is an apple crumble pie, piping hot and fresh from the oven.

“A Dutch pear pie. I’m trying out a new recipe.”

“You made that?” Before me on the stove top is a baked-good of perfection. Crumbles and a braided crust, not to mention the scent.

Glancing at Paradise, she chews at the corner of her mouth again. “I bake when I’m stressed.”

I stand taller, realizing her stress is from my presence. I don’t want to make her feel put out or uncomfortable, but I can’t leave.

“I’m sorry.” The words burn like hot coals as I don’t say them often. How many times should I have apologized to Melissa? How often should I have said the phrase to my kids, especially my son Nick who I ride hard? Even Eleanor who never deserves my harsh tone or tough attitude. “I’m the problem, right?”

Paradise sets the potholder on the counter and straightens to face me. “I bet a real problem of yours is realizing not everything is about you.”

“Harsh,” I mumble. Too often I’m told I’m the issue. Loud-mouthed. Hot-headed. Quick-fisted. All my body parts are out of control.

“How about pie and hot chocolate for breakfast?” Paradise turns away from me, retrieving a pie cutter from a drawer and then removes two mugs in the shape of Santa heads from a mug rack.

“I’m a coffee man,” I proudly admit.

“Then hot chocolate it is, as I don’t know how to use the coffee maker.”

Ignoring my wish, she sets a pot on the stove and fills it with milk, adds cocoa mix, and stirs. She’s a regular Betty Crocker minus the apron and full of curves. I warn myself to stop staring at her ass in those form fitting white pants, which on closer inspection are made of some kind of stretchy material.

When our pie breakfast is plated and cups of hot chocolate prepared, she steps toward the table, and I rush to pull out her chair. I can’t remember the last time I did such a thing for a woman. I’m not a total pig, but we aren’t on a date. I don’t need to impress her. Still, I can’t seem to help myself.

Paradise glances up at me, her face unreadable before she takes a seat and I follow, sitting opposite her.

She lifts her holiday mug and taps it against mine without offering any toast. Then she sips her hot cocoa and closes her eyes humming. For half a second, I imagine that sound coming from those naturally cherry-colored lips as I touch her.

Then I shake my head, ridding it of the heavenly image, and focusing instead on the pie before me. With a hearty slice on my fork, I scope up the pie, and shovel it into my mouth.