Page 27 of Grouch-ish

“Are you feeling okay?” He’s being awfully nice to me. Flowers yesterday. Grocery shopping. Watching holiday movies. Now breakfast. “What do you want?”

Brock falters beside the table, staring back at me. “I didn’t know it was a crime to make breakfast.”

“It’s not. It’s just . . .” I’m not used to someone—a man—being so nice to me. Not that people are generally rude or openly mean, but his thoughtfulness goes above and beyond while serving a twelve-day sentence. And whenever Reggie wanted something or he’d done something he knew I wasn’t going to like, he’d be nice for a few hours. Like make me breakfast.

Brock watches me for a long minute, waiting on me to further explain myself, but I don’t. Instead, I lower onto a chair. “Thank you.”

The two simple words make his smile grow three sizes larger. His grin should come with a warning because those dark eyes brighten, and the curve of his mouth is sinful. He nods, allowing me another pass on sharing a snowflake story, as he calls my history. Busying himself with a mug of coffee and a hot chocolate for me, he brings both mugs to the table before he takes a seat across from me.

Without much preamble, he starts shoveling in his food like a man who hasn’t eaten in weeks. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the vase of white tulips I placed on the center of the table last night. There’s a contrast between the delicate petals, the blossoms still closed tight, and the powerful hand lifting food on a fork to feed himself. I don’t know what the dichotomy means but I don’t try to analyze it.

Instead, I dig into French toast and hum with pleasure as I taste the breakfast Brock made for me.

+ + +

“So, I noticed these busted fence posts on my run the other day, and they need to be repaired.”

Brock and I stand at the corner of an area marked off by wooden posts and wire fencing between the orchard and the neighboring property. The morning is surprisingly sunny and crisp but not biting. Snow still covers the ground as the sun can only do so much to melt the blanket laid down days ago. More snow is predicted in the coming days so getting this fence fixed feels like a must.

“Afraid the cows will get out,” Brock mocks, knowing we don’t have any cows at the orchard.

“Nope. More worried about them getting in.”

“What?” Brock stands upright from his crouched position inspecting the posts that are practically snapped in half.

“The neighbor has cows, and they are free to roam. Scared the heck out of me when I was coming down the lane one morning and a giant heifer wandered into my path.”

Brock chuckles at the image as I recall the black and white beast that stepped before me, moo-ing at me like I was in her way.

“Should come with a warning bell, huh?”

“Something like that.” I smile. “So the fence posts . . .”

“Typically, you’d dig out the old post and replace it with a new one, but this ground is frozen solid, and an average post-hold digger won’t get you anywhere. I’d suggest a trip to a home improvement store for some lumber and maybe some new wires as a temporary fix.”

“That works.”

We need to take Brock’s truck, and when we enter it, he notices the absence of a car for me.

“How did you get here?”

“I Ubered to my aunt’s house to surprise my dad on Christmas Day, hoping to spend some time with him between the holidays. Surprise was on me, though, because he wouldn’t be here for the next two weeks. He’d probably told me, and I’d just spaced on it.” I’d had a lot on my mind recently.

“And you didn’t rent one?” Brock’s brows pinch. “How would you get somewhere if I wasn’t here?”

I shrug. “I hadn’t considered going anywhere. You can get almost anything you need delivered nowadays.”

His expression hardens. Jaw tightening. I can almost hear his thoughts, going into dad mode. What would you do in an emergency? If I were in a state of emergency, I probably wouldn’t be able to drive anyway. Plus, my car was being shipped to Chicago, due for delivery any day, but I wasn’t ready to share this information with Brock.

Finding what we needed at the home improvement store was relatively easy. However, Brock refused to let me pay for the items and we spent ten minutes arguing about how he wasn’t responsible for the expense of the fence, only fixing it. To which he countered that he’d invoice Dad later for the money.

We were eventually interrupted when a worker asked if we needed help and when we both declined rather adamantly, the older man didn’t flinch. He chuckled instead.

“How long you been married?”

Brock and I blink, glancing at one another before turning in tandem to the man.

“Nothing like home improvement projects to spark an argument. But once that honey-do project is done, she’ll make it up to you, am I right?” He winks at me, but I’m still too floored by his assumption that Brock and I are a couple to respond.