Page 5 of Grouch-ish

Most pressing, I needed this guy to somehow connect with Dad.

The cold air rippled through the thickness of my running leggings, and I shivered. The scent of snow was in the air, which Dad always thought was a strange ability I had. To smell snow coming.

“What does snow smell like?” he’d ask me.

I didn’t know how to explain it. Something fresh. Something clean. Something heavy but cozy, forcing us inside while wishing we could dance beneath it.

Dismissing the romantic thought, I glance back at the guy who works with Dad. They all kind of look the same; their age easily determined by their stature.

However, this man looks rather buff, and a bit formidable, in his heavy canvas jacket and worn construction boots. His hair is still dark on top but flecks of gray, like a dusting of snow, settle in the mix. The whiteness is heaviest near his ears. His jaw is covered in fresh scruff, like he recently shaved, but the facial hair grows back quickly. He has city-guy etched into his stiff cheeks and hard chin. His eyes are dark like coal but also sad, like a scared little boy resided inside him.

Silly, I know. Dad’s woo-woo rubs off on me sometimes.

“Let me just call Dad.” With my mittens in one hand, I unzip the pocket in my heavy running jacket and retrieve my phone. With a quick glance at Brock, as he said his name was, I watch him slip his hands into his pockets and hunch his shoulders upward to ward off the cold.

I wasn’t a fan of standing out here with the temperature dropping and a cold sweat congealing on my skin, but I also wasn’t about to let a stranger enter the house. He might be able to overtake me with his size, but I’d have some speed on him in my runners compared to his boots. Not that I planned to run or him to chase me. Just being cautious in the modern era as a single woman on a secluded farm with a big man before me.

As the call rings, I pray Dad will answer. He couldn’t have gotten far yet. Maybe he could turn around and pick Brock up. Worst case, he sends Brock home.

Brock turns his head and looks off in the distance. Not much to see other than a lane leading away from the house and further into the orchards. I observe his profile. That strong chin. A solid nose. Lush lips pursing.

“Pear?”

“Hey, Dad.” My voice is too high, as if caught doing something I shouldn’t be doing, like ogling one of Dad’s men. Clearing my throat, I tease, “I’ve got a stray here.”

Brock’s attention turns back to me, and our eyes meet for only a second. A zing rips up my center at that momentarily connection. Like the flick of a lighter, that sparks but doesn’t catch. The heat passes.

Quickly, I glance at the ground and toe my right foot through the gravel. “Want to come back and get him?”

“I can’t, honey. If we don’t stay on the road, we’ll miss this window in the weather, and I want to reach camp before snow hits.”

Lifting my head, I gaze up at the sky again. With a squint, I take in the heavy clouds. “Want me to send him home?”

I don’t know why I’m asking. Of course, I’ll send him home. He can’t stay here. I just didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news.

With my question to Dad, I hear the distinct crush of gravel and drop my gaze once more to Brock. He’s taken a few steps closer to me. His dark eyes are wide.

Let me talk to him, he mouths, holding out a thick hand, pink from the heat of his pocket but rugged and chapped looking.

“He wants to talk to you,” I say, preparing to hand the phone to Brock.

But my dad quickly retorts, “No.”

“What?” Keeping my eyes on Brock, I hold my breath. Why am I playing middleman here?

A pause sits heavily between Dad and me before my nickname fills the line again. “Pear.”

I recognize that tone. That distinguished and stomach-sickening cadence where my dad is about to tell me something I won’t like.

Mommy’s gone, baby.

The particular sound is branded in my brain.

“Dad,” I counter, warning him with my tone that I’m not going to like whatever he suggests.

“Keep him there.”

“What?” My gaze remains on Brock, who stands deer-in-headlights still while his eyes search my face. “Why?”