Page 23 of Grouch-ish

My breath catches from what he’d said. His woman. I could run a whole commentary on why calling me his woman is inappropriate and misogynist, but I’m stuck on another set of words. Roast beast. He caught the reference yesterday. And the little grinch before me shifts from a green heathen to a too-cute, fuzzy-soft creature.

“Aw, fireman, don’t make me like you.”

“I’m hard to resist.” His grin shifts to a knowing smirk.

Yeah, he knows he’s hot, but he isn’t looking at me cocky and confident. He’s staring at me like a hungry man, fighting off his desires while desperate to satisfy them.

“I also got you these.” From another bag, he removes a bouquet of hothouse-grown white tulips. The flower is so out of season and yet surprisingly refreshing.

“Are these apology flowers?” Is he sorry he kissed me earlier?

He shrugs. “Hadn’t really considered that.” He lifts his hand and scratches underneath his chin with his knuckles. The raspy sound does nothing to chill the gooey warmth in my lower belly.

“Just saw them and thought of you, snowflake.”

My face heats, suddenly realizing these aren’t simply last-second I’m sorry, flowers. That warmth down low becomes molten lava. Emotions that I should suppress can’t be wrangled. Brock wants to feed me. He bought me flowers because he thought of me. I almost don’t know what to do with this unexpected kindness.

“That was sweet.”

Reaching into his pants pocket, he pulls out something else. He holds out his cupped hand and inside is something made of wood.

“It’s a snowflake.” I lift my head, shock in my voice. “Did you make that? For me?”

He shrugs. “Just playing around.” His voice lowers, vulnerable and hesitant. I can almost hear his thoughts telling him it’s nothing. It’s stupid. But before he can retract his gift, an object I’ll treasure forever, I take it from him and press it to my chest.

His thoughtfulness will be my unraveling.

“That’s my apology.”

He has nothing to be sorry about. I’d take a thousand hot kisses from him, and every wooden snowflake he wants to make me.

+ + +

We don’t eat the beef. Instead, Brock bought a still-steaming, rotisserie chicken that comes with two sides and cornbread. We never had lunch and he admitted he was starving, so he wanted something hot and quick once he returned.

We ate in relative silence again. Brock rushing to eat. Me savoring the food.

After our lunch-slash-dinner, Brock showers and I return to the chair in the corner until he re-enters the living room and asks me if I want a glass of wine. I stand and meet him in the kitchen.

“Is this allowed on the job?” He holds up a brown bottle of beer for himself.

“I won’t tell, if you don’t.” I have no idea if Dad allows his restorative group to drink alcohol while on retreat. I’d guess yes, but if someone’s issue was with drugs or alcohol, I’d suspect no.

“Why did Dad want you on his retreat?”

Brock pops the cap on his beer and picks up the glass of wine he poured for me, nodding toward the couch for us to sit.

He follows me to the broken-in cushions and hands me the glass of red. We each take a corner of the couch. I lean my side into the back cushions and prop my arm on it, holding up my head as I face Brock. He slouches into the lumpy cushions and stares at the fire dancing in the hearth. He rests the open beer bottle at his waistline. He’s wearing black joggers and a long-sleeved waffle-weave shirt with three buttons open at the neck. Why is it loungewear can look so sexy on a man?

“I hit someone.”

My arm drops and I sit upright. Brock turns only his head to look at me. “We’d been drinking, shooting the shit, when Dane mentioned Melissa, my ex.” Brock looks away again, lifts his beer and takes a long drink. “He made some wisecrack about Melissa fucking Kenny. Some quip I can’t even recall now, but I snapped. Clocked him right in the nose.”

Brock makes a fist and imitates a rather weak punch. When his hand settles back around his beer bottle, he sighs. “I overreacted. Always do.” Sarcasm fills his voice.

“Why?”

“Why what?” He glances at me again.