Page 11 of Grouch-ish

“Fuck, that’s hot,” I mutter around a steamy mouthful, all sense of manners and decorum melted away as my mouth burns and I swallow a scorching bite of pie.

Leaning into the hard back of her chair and covering her mouth while watching me fan my hand before my open lips, Paradise chuckles. “You’re kind of a mess, fireman.”

“You have no idea, snowflake.”

Chapter 4

[Pear]

Snowflake?

Cute but not exactly complimentary. I’m a sturdy girl which means I’m more like an ice-packed snowball than a dainty snowflake. And I’m not afraid to use such as a weapon of choice, if need be, with this hot mess of a man. He could use some cooling off and I’m not just referring to his mouth where he rushed to shove pie fresh from the oven into his appropriately named pie-hole.

The alpha energy coming off him could vaporize the snow piling up outside. I bet the heat he produces works at melting panties as well, but I’m not here to have my underwear liquidized. I have my own issues at hand, and as I told him, he isn’t always the focus of a situation.

“So, what’s your story, Paradise?”

I pull my leg up, so my heel rests on the edge of my seat, and I wrap my arm around my bent knee. Setting my chin on the bony notch, I stare across the table at Brock.

“Not how this works, fireman. My story needs to be earned.” This isn’t some random first date where we speed through monotonous interview questions. What do you do? Where do you work? How long have you lived in Atlanta? Why did you move here? Blah-blah-blah . . .

Brock arches one of his bushy brows and watches me. His gaze flits to my lips. With the way his eyes keep roaming over my body, he’s either easily distracted or vaguely interested. It’s always one or the other with guys like him. The way his gaze keeps falling to my mouth I either have food on my lips or he’s envisioning things I won’t be doing to him. I’m not here for flesh snacks and pithy seduction.

“Let’s discuss what you’ll be doing.”

I really thought Brock would drive away. Dad wasn’t here. I was. And without my dad to keep Brock in check, I figured he’d take a free pass to leave. But something in his cold-coal eyes told me he needed this second chance. Or third. Or fourth. He needed to prove himself to Dad. Maybe even prove his worth to himself.

So, while I am surprised he returned to the door after searching for a hotel, I’d taken the time to compile a list of things Brock could do around this place. For Dad.

“You’ll start with canning pears.”

“I’ll what?”

“We need the stock.” I have no idea if this is true but canning pears feels appropriate for phase one of Operation Grouchy.

He glances over his shoulder, further narrowing his eyes to glare out the window behind him. The snow is really piling up and I’m not certain how he’ll accomplish some of the other things on the list. Not my problem, though.

“I thought this was an apple orchard.”

“Dad grows apples and pears.”

Brock turns back toward me and glances down at the still-steaming slice of pie. “Did the pears in this pie come from your trees?”

“Yes. I opened a jar we had on hand, but our supply will only get us so far. We have Valentine’s to contend with.” Since I’m making this up as I go, I’m hopeful training from my theatre days, which peaked in high school, still work.

“Valentine’s,” he snorts. “A little early for the next holiday, don’t you think? We haven’t even reached New Year’s.” His nose wrinkles like he just remembered he’ll be here—with me—when the new year rolls over.

Not exactly the New Year’s plan I had either, buddy.

“Yes, nothing says love like a jar of pears.”

Brock stares at me and it takes everything in me not to burst out laughing at the expression on his face. He doesn’t know whether to believe me or tease me. While I’m trying to act as if I’m serious, who the hell would give pears to their lover? And who else is gullible enough to believe a jar of pears would be romantic?

Making an assumption, I bet Brock is a shitty gift giver, like Reggie, my ex-husband.

On our first holiday together, he gave me a George Foreman grill because he knows I like to eat. Not exactly romantic.

“Anyway, I’ll set you up and—”