Page 69 of Grouch-ish

Twenty-four more hours to play my devious hand.

Day 12

Twelve thunderclouds thunderin’

January 6

Chapter 20

[Pear]

“Pear?”

Sitting bolt upright, I turn to Brock, conked out beside me. Through the slim opening of the blanket fort above us, the fire has dwindled to a dull orange of simmering embers once again.

Last night we went another few rounds of coming together between drifts of sleep and an actual card game. Each time one of us brushed up against the other, it was as if a match struck, and the flame sparked. We’d been insatiable.

Now, the bright light of a new day fills the chilly room.

And my dad is back early. Or is it late? What time is it?

“Dad.” I hold my breath, hoping I’m dreaming. This cannot be happening. At forty-one years old, I’m not being caught in a blanket fort in the living room, minus my clothes, and lying beside someone who works with my father.

“Paradise?” My father’s tone stiffens.

Nope. Not dreaming. Mortified, but not dead.

“Shit,” I mutter, searching for clothing but when I can’t seem to piece together anything that would semblance an outfit, I drag a quilt around me, exposing more of Brock before crawling out of the fort on all fours. Awkwardly I stand, with the blanket wrapped around my middle and clutching at it near my breasts.

“You’re back early.”

“With the storm finally over, I left hoping to beat another one.” Dad is dressed in his typical winter attire. A quilted flannel and a knit cap covering his gray buzz cut. Weathered skin shows his age but his smile is typically warm. A thin layer of scruff covers his jaw from days without a razor. He turns his face toward the window before looking back at me. “I’m surprised you’re still here.”

“Where else would I be?” I told him I was sticking around for a while, playing off the extended time like this was a vacation, before I could tell him this was a permanent leave of absence from my former life.

Suddenly, the fort beside me shudders and the blanket over the top of the chairs collapses to cover Brock in a makeshift kilt around his waist. He stands to his full height and places his palm on my lower back, like a united front. He addresses my dad.

“Morning, Cap.”

“Brock?” My father’s gaze pings between the two of us before his brows crease, the divot severe enough to hold a quarter. “What are you doing here?”

Not exactly the first question I thought he’d ask, considering we’re both only dressed in blankets.

“What do you mean?” Brock stares at my dad before giving me a questioning glance then looking back at Dad. “You told me to stay.”

Dad’s eyes narrow, his glare returning to me. “You got my text, right?”

I swallow hard and lower my head. Chewing at my lower lip, I side-eye Brock. This isn’t how I wanted him to find out.

“What text?” Brock asks, rubbing up my back and watching me, before peering at my dad for answers.

“I’d messaged Pear later that first day, telling her she didn’t have to keep you here. She’d been right. It wasn’t fair to ask her to take on my responsibility. It was my job to restore you. It was your job to be on time and you hadn’t been.”

Brock removes his hand from my back, and I hate the loss of his touch. He swipes the same hand through his messy hair. His shoulders stiffen as my father continues to glare at him.

“I don’t understand.” Brock’s voice is rough, from both sleep and sudden irritation. He scratches beneath his chin next, the hair thick along his throat. I don’t want to think about where his face has been.

“I don’t either,” Dad counters, keeping his focus on Brock while taking a good look at him from top to toe. In our blanket attire, the situation is rather obvious.