Page 66 of Grouch-ish

I’m reminded of myself. All the things I tried to protect my father from knowing. When I was younger, my sister was there to lean on when I made mistakes.

The boy I gave my virginity to in my senior year of high school.

The kid in my psychology class who broke my heart, ghosting me after two months.

The guy I’d hoped to marry before I met Reggie.

Precious never met Reggie. If she had, she might have instantly discerned he wasn’t good enough for me. No one ever had been.

But Brock . . . she would have adored him. The quiet things he did, like pulling out my chair or holding open a door. The handmade wooden snowflake he’d taken the time to carve himself. The way he stuck out his restorative sentence, embracing these twelve days in order to prove himself to my dad.

“I can feel you watching me,” he mumbles, groggy and grouchy, but without any bite. Slowly, his mouth curls before his lids open. “Hi.”

“Hi.” I swallow around a sudden lump in my throat. One chalky and jagged like a lump of coal. “I need to tell you something.”

It was time to fess up. He needed to know that Dad—

“Me too,” he grumbles before scooting closer to me and kissing me without further warning. His fingers tighten on my hip, tugging me to him despite blankets falling between us.

“Brock,” I mutter against his lips, internally chastising myself after taking eager sips of him. “I—”

“I had a dream about you.”

He cuts me off once more, returning his mouth to mine, kissing me senseless before I finally ask, “What was the dream?”

“Let me show you.”

Brock shoves back the blankets wrapped over our bodies. The sudden rush sends a shiver over my skin as the cool air hits us. The fire has lost its blaze, settling into embers that sizzle and hiss. We’ll need to stoke it again, but Brock has other plans.

He reaches for my wrists and tugs me upright. “Let’s play a game.”

I chuckle softly as I’d suggested the same thing during the college football game, wagering sexual favors for winning quarters. I wasn’t a gambler, but I loved a good competition and a competitive gleam fills Brock’s eyes. He retrieves a deck of cards that I hadn’t noticed from beneath the pillows.

“Pick a card.” He holds out two.

I’m curious while hesitant to play along, wavering between the two cards, one pushed forward a few millimeters compared to the other. Whether on purpose or not, I exaggerate my decision making.

“Do I want this one?” I pause before what looks like the shorter of the two. “Or this one?” Hovering my eager fingers in front of the longer one.

I glance up at Brock but he’s no help, his face stoic and firm. When I pull forward the shorter one, certain he wants me to take the longer of the two, I watch his face once more. He’d be great at poker. Considering we are already naked, though, this definitely isn’t a game that involves stripping off our clothes.

“Perfect,” Brock states, taking my wrist and turning my hand so my card faces him.

The queen of diamonds.

“Did you know that the fifty-two cards in a deck represent the weeks of the year?”

No. At forty-one years old, I had no idea and I stare at him, uncertain where this is going.

“Four suits for four seasons. Winter, spring, summer, fall. Thirteen cards each representing the number of weeks within them.”

“Phew.” I whistle. “Maybe you are more country than city after all,” I tease, as the seasons are agricultural in nature.

“And you’ve drawn the queen of diamonds, which represents summer. She’s feminine.” Brock circles my wrist and rubs his thumb up my inner forearm. “The diamond is actually a vulva.”

My head pops up. “You’re making this up.”

He shrugs. “I’m not.” The corner of his mouth ticks upward and I don’t know if he’s serious or teasing, but stroking my inner arm suggests where this game is leading.