Page 38 of Grouch-ish

“What are you doing?” Brock wonders, remaining seated while glancing at me over his shoulder. His visor is flipped upward, and his cheeks are ruddy.

“We’re going to have to push this back to the barn.”

Brock eyes me up and down. “I can do it.”

“But it will be faster with the two of us.”

A shiver ripples up my back and I visibly shake out my arms, chasing off the chill.

“You’re cold.”

I don’t respond. It’s snowing harder than it was earlier, and suddenly, the surrounding orchard doesn’t look like a wonderland as much as a menacing blizzard whistling through the shorter trees.

“Why don’t you head back to the house? I’ll push it.”

“I’m not leaving you out here alone.” And I don’t want to argue. It’s too cold to fight. Stepping up to one side of the snowmobile, I brace my hands on the handlebar.

Brock hesitates a second before slipping off the opposite side and mirroring my position. Together, we push the heavy machine, which thankfully slides along the mounting snow. Still the effort is difficult as the snow is soft, and the snowmobile feels like it’s sinking.

“Just leave it,” Brock hollers over the sharp sting of whipping snow.

“No.” My back is going to hate me, but I push with all the strength I can muster while we make tedious progress until, finally, we shove the snowmobile into the barn.

+ + +

Once we return to the house, Brock is quick to start a fire to heat up the main room and suggests I take a shower.

“Honestly, I think I’m too tired for the effort.” I really should shower to warm up my skin and loosen my bones, but I just want warm clothes and a seat in front of the growing flames. “You can go first.”

Something in my expression must tell Brock I don’t have it in me to fight with him, and he heads for the bathroom while I change with trembling limbs and shaky fingers into my comfy pair of high-waisted, loose-legged pants, and a fluffy mid-drift sweater.

With Brock still in the shower, I turn on the television in time to watch a recap of the clock striking midnight in Australia. Keeping the television on mute, I make myself a cup of hot chocolate and turn on the coffeemaker for Brock. Then I settle on the floor before the fireplace, feeling the heat of the blaze warm my skin. The room is still festive with the garland strung along the mantel and the fairy lights twinkling within the evergreen strands. But with the tree removed, Christmas is gone.

I sigh a little in relief.

Moments later, Brock appears, standing at the edge of the living room. Leaning into the corner where the hallway meets the living room, his hands are slipped into the pockets of his black joggers. He’s wearing another waffle-weave shirt with the buttons at his throat open and the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hair is still damp. Even his beard glistens a little, like he stepped out of the shower and didn’t fully dry off.

“I’m sorry about outside.”

“Running out of gas?” My brows cinch. “It’s not like you planned it to happen.”

His gaze remains on me. “I should have watched the gauge better.”

I stare up at him, knowing I accused him of not doing such a thing, but it really wasn’t his fault.

“I was having too much fun,” he adds.

“Me too,” I offer, keeping my eyes on him.

“But you were cold.”

I shrug.

“Why didn’t you say anything earlier? We could have come back sooner.”

I was lifting my mug of steaming cocoa to my lips but stop short and answer. “Because you were having fun. And so was I.”

“Snowflake,” he whispers, like he’s confused by my explanation.