Chapter 14

[Pear]

Brock was not expecting my enthusiasm for a football game, and his surprise shows when I pull out a deck of battered old cards.

“Let’s play a game.”

“Now?” he questions.

“Pick two cards. And I’ll pick two cards.”

He peers skeptically at me but tugs two from the fanned deck in my hands. While he waits patiently, I draw two.

“Okay, we can share our cards with each other.” I show him I have the seven of spades and the three of diamonds.

He has the eight of clubs and the queen of hearts.

“At the end of the first quarter, if the score is seven to three or anything ending in seven or three, I win. And if the score is eight to twelve, or anything ending in eight with a twelve, you win.”

Brock scoffs. “For my team or yours?” He’s still shocked I’m a Georgia fan while he’s all Michigan.

“Either team.”

“And what do I win?” He reaches forward and tugs at my hips as I stand in front of where he sits on the couch.

“Well, when I was a kid and we played this game, the payout was a quarter. At the end of a game, you might have won a dollar. But I think we can wager something more substantial.” I smile slowly.

Brock’s eyes spark. “Hmm, I could think of a few things.”

The fog surrounding him after his tale about Nate has dissipated. I wish he didn’t feel so responsible for something beyond his control. He couldn’t have predicted a hidden air shaft. However, Brock is a man who does not take his responsibilities lightly. He also needs help processing what happened, even if it was years ago.

I’m slowly realizing that it isn’t that Brock doesn’t feel his emotions, it’s that he feels everything so much. He tries to shut off the difficult sections of his life, like an out-of-control fire hydrant. Self-preservation is his stronghold.

“We’ll pick new cards each quarter.”

“So just to clarify, when I win at the end of the first quarter, I can have anything I want.” Confident and cocky, his voice drops. How the score will end in an eight and twelve in one quarter is beyond me but best of luck to him.

“Anything. And if I win, I get anything I ask.”

Brock squeezes my hips, jostling me a little bit. “Going down on you again is going to be a win for me as well, snowflake.”

“Oh, we talkin’ sexual payouts?” I tease, hoping we were, but I have a bigger favor to ask.

“If you play your cards right . . .” he counters.

We both laugh. The tension snapped for now.

At the end of the first quarter, however, I win and have my first ask. “I want you to promise you’ll go to therapy. Not just say you’ll think about it.” I recognize a vague vow when I hear it.

Brock’s mouth pops open. Then shuts. “This isn’t how I saw this game going.”

Maybe now isn’t the time for the suggestion but . . . “You assured me I could ask for anything. And I want to trust your word.”

We stare at one another for a long hard minute while commercials about chips and beer play on the television.

“You can trust me,” he strongly states. “But I still thought you’d ask for an orgasm.”

I chuckle. “Maybe when I win next quarter. But your mental health is more important to me, Brock.”

He stares at me, until I’m so uncomfortable I’m almost ready to tell him to forget I asked. I’d take the orgasm, but with my current mindset, relaxing into something so selfish would be difficult.

“Fine.” His reply is sharp, resolved, but also strangely decisive.

“Promise?”

“I swear.”

“Pinky promise,” I tease .

“I have something better than wrapping our fingers together.” With that, I’m falling backward on the couch and victory is mine when his fingers do indeed connect with another part of me.

By the time the Bulldogs finally win the game, I’ve had four orgasms. And one promissory note.

A new team record.

Go, me.

+ + +

“What’s going on?” Brock asks in the morning as he shuffles into the kitchen while I’m hanging up the landline phone on the wall.

He looks a little rough this morning as he scratches beneath his chin. His hair is sticking up on one side. Just looking at that silvery blend on his jaw has me clenching my thighs together. His mouth was sweet last night but the way he’d rubbed that beard against my skin . . . I shiver. A good shiver.

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.”

“The twelve days of Valentine’s?” I shrug my shoulders, attempting to keep things light and hope my mishap disappears into the snowy abyss.

“Now that holiday is more than a day?” He chuckles. “I can’t keep up. Maybe it should be the fourteen days of Valentine’s.”

“That’s a lot of love-gifting.” However, is it any different than the twelve days of gifts from a true love at Christmas?

Brock continues to watch me while sipping his coffee. When he lowers his cup, his gaze never leaves my face.

“Might be worth the challenge.”

I chew on my lower lip. Does he mean me? I’m the challenge. Or does he mean fourteen days in another month would be a challenge? Like the twelve days he’ll have put in here at the farm. Has it been difficult to be here?

I hate the unwarranted doubt. Brock has taken each task I’ve given, mostly without complaint, and completed them. The fact our little forced proximity has turned into more hasn’t seemed to bother him one bit, either. But what happens when these twelve days are complete?

Would Valentine’s Day mean anything for either of us?

Would we both be alone again, like we were at the start of his sentence?

There are things I need to tell him.

I don’t want to go back to being alone.

I don’t want to go back to living without him.

Selfish .

“Snowflake,” Brock calls, and I blink, knowing I zoned out. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I lie. “Just excited to milk some cows.”