Page 36 of Grouch-ish

“What are you doing?” Brock questions as he returns to the main room.

I stare back at him, my lacking comprehension evident.

“Get dressed,” he commands.

“Oh, I’m not—” Adamantly shaking my head, I brush off the idea of me on a snowmobile.

“It’s like riding a motorcycle.”

“I don’t ride those either.”

“Ever?”

“Never.”

Brock stares at me, his expression blank. “Why not?”

I shrug. “Guess the opportunity has never presented itself.”

“Well, consider this”—he pats on his chest—“as an opportunity knocking. Get dressed.”

“I don’t—”

“Get. Dressed.” The command might be non-threatening, but there’s a warning in his rugged voice. He’s not arguing with me.

I’m in no rush to dress, and use the bathroom three times for good measure as I’ll have layers and layers of clothing on and no desire to remove it for outdoor peeing. When I’m finally ready, an impatiently waiting Brock is nearly bursting out of his skin. Pacing, he fights to stay calm as I lace up my boots and zip up my jacket.

“Ready,” I announce.

“Finally,” he mutters. Then he winks.

Snow is falling lightly but collecting on top of the already accumulated drifts as we make our way to the barn. Brock runs a series of quick checks on the snowmobile, explaining how he found gas in a portable can, and our first mission is to find a gas station to fill the tank.

When he hops on the motorized sled, he revs the throttle and waits for me to climb on. With the abundance of clothing between us, I wouldn’t expect to feel the strength of his body once I’m seated, but I do. Climbing behind him is like I imagine riding a motorcycle would be. With my arms wrapped around him, I discover his mid-section is tight. His legs are powerful against the inside of my thighs. The vibration beneath does nothing to quell the desire rising every day for this man.

“Hang on,” he hollers over the loud engine.

Brock guides us along the lane before cutting between the dormant pear trees for thicker pillows of snow. He drives with caution, which I assume is for my benefit, as he navigates us through the orchard and toward a main road in search of a gas station.

Once our tank is full, Brock pays inside the station and returns to the snowmobile with a swaggering stride. “The attendant told me about a nearby trail. Ready for a ride?”

I could snark that he hadn’t given me an option but it’s clear he’s offering me a choice now.

I only nod and watch as Brock blinds me with another one of his hard-won grins. He’s so good looking, even with layers of clothing and a helmet on his head.

He climbs back on the snowmobile, and we take off for trails that weave and curl through the woods. I have no idea how Brock knows where we are going, but I eventually stop wondering and give in to the beauty of nature around us. Despite the roar of the engine, it’s peaceful among the snow-laden trees and the thickly laid snow paths. Underneath the heavy canopy of towering evergreens and deciduous trees now absent of leaves, the falling snow isn’t as prevalent, but the effects of the overnight flakes have made their mark. With ice coated branches and strips of downy snow on solid limbs, the forest truly is a winter wonderland.

“It’s so beautiful,” I holler, uncertain if Brock can hear me. When he doesn’t answer, I assume he can’t.

We blaze among the trees and trails for an undetermined amount of time before Brock finally slows to a stop.

“You okay?” he calls back to me.

“I’m great.” I’m not certain I’ve ever felt so free. Free from worry. Free from cares. Sitting back and clinging to Brock feels reassuring. Like I don’t need to be in charge. Like I can do anything I want. Later.

Another snowmobile approaches and slows beside us. The driver is a man with a young girl in a pink snowsuit behind him. When he flips up his visor, deep brown eyes appear.

“You guys alright?” he hollers over the hum of idling engines.