Page 54 of Grouch-ish

Last night, we slept in the same bed again with him curled around me. We’d done all our kissing and canoodling on the couch. The bed was strictly for sleeping.

“Mr. Renshaw’s cows need milking.”

“Excuse me?” Brock’s brows lift.

“Mr. Renshaw is the farmer whose property butts up to Dad’s. His cows are the ones that wander into the orchard sometimes. He called because something happened to his milking machine. Power out or generator down.” I wave a hand. “Anyway, he needs help and I guess Dad typically steps up.”

Brock eyes me suspiciously. “But your dad isn’t here.”

“Nope. We are, so he’s getting two for the price of one.”

“I don’t know anything about milking cows, snowflake,” Brock counters, dropping his hand.

“Neither do I, but he needs us.”

“I am not fondling some cow’s tits.”

“Good thing they are called teats.”

“I’m not squeezing its nipples.” His gaze drops to my chest where he fondled and squeezed mine last night but milking a cow will not be the same thing.

“Afraid you’ll get turned on?” I tease.

“No. Because I was already hard.” He grabs himself. “But now I’m not.”

I pout. “Someone is grouchy today.” When we played our card game last night, he refused to let me touch him as one of my quarter wins. Maybe he needs a little something to right him getting up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.

He huffs and turns his head toward the coffee machine. “Is there coffee?”

“Fireman,” I whisper and watch as his eyes close. He takes a deep breath before his shoulders relax.

“Just let me have a cup of coffee and we can go.”

While Brock crosses the kitchen, I rapidly clap my hands together and bounce up and down on my toes. “I love you.”

Brock and I both freeze. Him with his hand reaching for a mug. Me with a gasp and my hands clasped beneath my chin.

“I mean . . . You know . . . I love you as in I love that you’re doing this. For the cows.” My face heats with embarrassment and I cringe, aware of my faux pas.

Brock keeps his back to me as he pours himself a cup of coffee and I want to melt into the hardwood floor at saying something so stupid.

Falling in love is not on the twelve-day list.

He spins with his mug in hand, then leans back against the counter while lifting the steaming cup to his lips.

“For the cows,” he repeats, watching me over the rim of his mug. “Because nothing says love like cows.”

“Like jars of pears. And owls.”

“We’re at Valentine’s cows now, are we?” His bushy brow hitches.

“Official animal.”

“I thought the owls were.”

“Those are birds,” I counter, still horrified that I said I loved him, even if I meant it in a playful, noncommittal, I won kind of way.

“Ah. I’m learning so much about romance. Best to be prepared for the next holiday.”