Page 21 of Grouch-ish

That kiss was so hot, it melted snow. Literally. Bits and pieces had trickled down my back and no amount of cooling could tamp down the heat rushing through my body.

While I cleaned up today’s progress on the bench, Brock returned to the work shed and sheepishly asked if he could use a small chunk of wood he found for something. I shrugged but nodded. We worked in comfortable silence for a while longer, even as the air around us sizzled. I was aware of every noise and movement Brock made, even though I kept my head down, pretending as if that kiss hadn’t just thawed an inch of the ice surrounding my heart.

When we finally exited the workshop together and I locked the door, Brock immediately offered to go to the grocery store. Sensing we needed some space after that near-kiss and heated attack on my neck, I let him go.

Strangely, I worry he won’t come back. This was his out. Not that I was holding him prisoner, but he could drive off and decide not to return. Dad isn’t here to demand Brock focus, and Brock made it clear he’d rather not be here at all.

However, yesterday, he gave pear canning a valiant effort, and today he worked diligently on the set of dressers. Keeping his hands busy might have helped clear his mind. That had been my hope for myself when I started sanding Mom’s old bench. The piece would look perfect here on the front porch of the farmhouse. If this place was my parents’ dream, Dad should have the bench on display, not buried in his work shed with other random antiques. Mom’s favorite piece was meant to be enjoyed and used, not hidden.

That had been Dad’s explanation for the holiday decorations that draped and dripped throughout his house. My mom loved Christmas and their treasured ornaments and traditions should be brought into the light once a year. My dad was rather sentimental. Which also might have explained why he still had the white dresser that belonged to my sister as a child. He had trouble letting go of objects that held memories.

As for me, I often believed it was better to remove an item than to stare it in the face. An object was only an object. It didn’t hold value, at least not mentally.

Seeing my mom’s bench had me second guessing my old opinion. However, I didn’t take the time to delve any deeper into my thoughts, as I had bigger issues.

Personal business to attend to. Namely, relieving the ache Brock had produced with his opened-mouth suction on my neck. The way he held my jaw, positioned between his thumb and forefinger. So dominating. So tantalizing. And then those teeth.

While I stand beneath the spray of a warm shower, I shiver. My skin was chilled from the contrast of the sweat I’d worked up all morning and the snow that melted down my back. But as my body turns pink underneath the heated water, my thoughts turn red hot. Tickling my fingers between my breasts, it feels wrong to be turned on by Brock. Wrong to take care of myself without him present, but isn’t that what men do all the time? A little relief in the shower to clear their heads; pun intended.

As my fingers linger at my waist, drawing circles around my belly button, I smile to myself, recalling Brock’s angry reaction to my comment yesterday about being the fat girl and my admission today about Reggie and his repulsion over the changes in my body. I’ve always been a solid girl. Broad shoulders, wide hips. My stomach was flatter when I was younger. My breasts smaller, too. Each decade seems to add ten pounds, though, and I went through a period where I didn’t try to fight the weight gain.

I typically live life with an equal balance between healthy diet and regular exercise, but I’m not going to deny myself good food or a little fun on occasion. What can I say? I like to eat.

I close my eyes and cleanse myself of the negative reminders of my past. My fingers travel lower, and I envision Brock on his knees before me. That mouth of his, warm and wet, sucking on the sensitive nub currently pulsing with need. Those teeth scraping over tender folds, drawing out the building tension. Then that tongue . . . hmm, his tongue. Long and thick, hot and hungry, would work with teasing aggression like he did against my neck as he devours me.

I shiver once more, but this time with pleasure. As my fingers stroke between my legs, my mouth falls open in a silent gasp. My eyes remain closed, while tiny snowflakes flicker behind my lids and a rush of heat warms my lower belly, sparks flaring against an area that’s been cold for too long.

Brock’s name is a silent whisper in my head as I come hot and fast.

I’m not one to have one-night stands, and I hadn’t been on many dates that lead to more than kissing. My focus has been elsewhere over the past three years, but now . . . this is why I’d come to Paradise Farms.

I wanted a new direction for my stagnant life.

And Brock Scroggs had ignited something else that has been dormant.

My libido is back.

+ + +

When Brock hadn’t returned once I exited the shower and dressed, thoughts of him abandoning his twelve days, now down to almost ten, flit through my head again. Attempting to calm my galloping mind, I start a small fire and curl into the red plaid chair in the corner. I love this spot for reflection and if the Christmas tree wasn’t present, I’d be able to stare out the window from this position.

With another mug of hot chocolate, splashed with a hint of peppermint, minus the alcohol, I ponder my life choices. Decisions I’ve made. Conversations I’ve had. Things that are all so meaningless as I can’t change the past. And wishing I could go back is like shoveling during a snowstorm. Not going to get me anywhere but cold and exhausted.

Through therapy, I’ve been able to release the mistake of marrying Reggie. Forgive myself for the things I hadn’t seen in our marriage. Forgive him for the doubts he placed in me about myself. If nothing else, the past three years have taught me how much of a survivor I am.

I’d stayed in a job I never really loved to work off the debt that Reggie had incurred in our name.

I’d divorced him and sought the help I needed for the mental damage caused in our marriage.

I’d come to terms with tragic personal loss.

What I hadn’t done, though, was tell my dad everything. He’d willingly have given up anything to help me, but I didn’t want that. I hadn’t wanted to lay my burdens on him. He’d had enough in his lifetime. I didn’t want to be the cause of more stress. Plus, I was a grown adult. I’d made my decisions, which turned out to be mistakes, and I had to forgive myself for being human.

I’d fallen. I’d risen back up. In between those two points had been the rough patch.

This didn’t mean I didn’t still have some emotional scars. My issues weren’t abandonment but loss. I’d lost my mother when I was young. I’d lost my way when I married Reggie. I’d lost—

The front door swings open and a blast of cold air whirls into the room, cutting off my rambling thoughts. I stand instantly.