Page 59 of Grouch-ish

His reassurance settles my simmering blood a little.

“Anna and I were old friends, and you and I are new.”

One is silver and the other gold?

“Friends?” I scoff, my blood slowly heating again.

Brock tugs me closer to him and I stumble against his thigh until he spreads his legs and moves me between them. His hands fall to my hips, holding me in place while my gaze lowers to the buttons on his flannel shirt.

“Baby, look at me.”

Slowly, I lift my head.

“What do you want us to be, Pear?”

I don’t have a definition. I don’t have a label. I just didn’t want him to be with someone else. Not yet. We still have three more days before he will be set free. Before the truth will come out.

I have no right to play the jealous lover card.

“I . . . I don’t know,” I finally admit.

“Yeah, me neither.” However, the corners of Brock’s mouth slowly hitch up. “Still, is it wrong that I kind of like that you were jealous?” He inhales deeply, puffing out his chest. “Mama bird all ruffled over daddy. Like swans who are possessive of their mates. Feels good to be wanted like that.”

While he jostles my hips, I weakly laugh, smacking at his firm pecs. “You’re ridiculous.” But I’m the one whose face heats, embarrassed by my behavior.

“Now, about me flirting . . . want me to flirt with you?”

“Lay it on me, fireman,” I tease, relieved that we’re back to being playful.

Brock eyes me a second, making a show of lowering his gaze, roaming up my body like he’s tracing the outline of my solid thighs, my wider hips, and my firm breasts. I shiver beneath his assessment.

“You’re a real fireball. Take a shot with me. Then take a shot on me.”

“Weak,” I chuckle, toying with the collar of his shirt.

“Give me a chance, snowflake. I bet I can make you melt. On my tongue.” He sticks out his tongue.

“There is no way that line works on anyone.”

“I don’t need it to work on anyone. I only want you.” His tone shifts to serious. The flirt is still present in his eyes, but the cheesy pickup lines are erased. He leans forward to kiss me, tantalizingly slow and sweet, simmering and making me melt after all. He’s good at this.

“Gonna dance with me, cowboy?” I ask coyly, pulling back from him.

“Does milking cows once make me a cowboy?”

I laugh again while running my hand down his chest. “I doubt it. Besides, I prefer firemen.”

Brock catches my hand dragging down his midsection and flattens it over his racing heart. “Fireman,” he emphasizes. “Singular. Me.”

My laughter deepens while my eyes remain focused on his. “Fine. You’re the only one.”

“Better,” he grunts. “Now, let’s dance.”

Standing, he takes my hand again and leads me to the dance floor where Taylor Swift sings about lovers and Christmas lights in January.

I wish the holidays would never end.

Day 10