Chapter 3

[Brock]

I’m pissed that Cap wouldn’t talk to me. His daughter told me not to bother calling him myself as Cap doesn’t answer his phone for anyone on these trips. He only answered her call because she is his daughter, and he hadn’t gotten to the camp yet.

Camp . I don’t remember ever camping.

“I’m Paradise, by the way.” She nods stiffly as we remain outdoors, the snow softly falling around us as a precursor to something heavier. The calm before the storm, so to speak. The magic before the tragedy.

“As in Paradise Farms?” My voice is molasses-thick, almost sarcastic, but it isn’t her fault I’m in this predicament.

She explained how Cap said I was late. True .

He was done talking to me. Harsh .

And I could work on the farm for twelve days.

“You need to find a hotel.”

“At whose expense?” I wasn’t a millionaire, and I also wasn’t interested in forking over money for an eleven-night stay when this wasn’t a vacation. This was Cap’s order.

“Not my problem.”

I sigh and swipe my hand over my head. My hat is in the truck and my hair is damp. The longer I stand out here, the colder I get.

“Maybe there will be another twelve-day retreat,” I say more to myself than to her.

“Do you have time to wait?”

My eyes latch onto hers again. Fuck, she’s pretty . That dark hair contrasts with her cerulean eyes reminding me of the bright blue holiday lights twinkling along houses this time of year.

“I doubt it.” Again, said more to me than her.

Cap must really be at the end of his rope because no man gets left behind is a motto of our department. I realize I was late, but he could have turned around. He couldn’t have gotten very far in twenty minutes. Or he could have given me the address and I’d drive there myself. Still, his actions said it all.

He wasn’t coming back. He wasn’t making an exception for me. Over and over again, he’d gone to the mat for me, but this was like last call at the bar. Time was closing in.

“I guess I’ll call a hotel.”

Noticing that I was continually talking more to myself than her, Paradise doesn’t say a word. Instead, she circles around me to enter the house.

“Good luck,” she calls out after I spin to watch her retreat. She wiggles her fingers in a mocking wave, enters the house and closes the door behind her without a glance back.

What the—

With the billowing snow piling up on the ground, I return to my truck, turn on the engine and search my phone for a local hotel. Nothing pops up with vacancies, not even from a motel that looks more like a rent-by-the-hour than an extended stay place.

“Shit.” I glance out the front windshield where downy flakes are quickly covering the glass. “I should just go home.”

I can handle Cap’s wrath. Take my punishment like a man. Pay a fine or accept whatever ridiculous manual labor Cap dishes out. Scrub toilets with a toothbrush. Clean a grease trap or vacuum behind the firehouse fridge. Your basic probie work.

Still, I remain in the heat of my truck, watching the snow fall like sand in an hourglass. Cap’s silent treatment hurts more than anything. It isn’t like him not to want to talk. He’s good at listening. He’s intuitive and sharp. He knows when to back off and when to step in, but not speaking with me isn’t like him.

He’s really done with my shit, and I need this time, if for no other reason than to prove to Cap I’m solid. I’m strong. I’ll do whatever it takes.

I’ve been sitting here roughly forty minutes, so I kill the ignition on my truck and push open the heavy driver’s door where a cold blast smacks me in the face.

My mind is made up. I’m not leaving this farm.

Little Miss Paradise isn’t going to like it.

Like a partridge in a pear tree, I’m here to stay for twelve days.

+ + +

“You what?” Paradise stands with the front door slightly ajar. The sliver allows me only a slim view of her luscious body.

“I’m staying.” I pause. “Here.”

The shock on her rosy face, now heated from the warmth of a roof over her head and a toasty house surrounding her goes from pink to red in an instant. Her feathers are definitely ruffled by my declaration.

“I can’t find a hotel within sixty miles of this place, and I can’t leave.” I didn’t want to beg, so I needed her to hear the resolve in my voice. I couldn’t go home.

“Cap said twelve days, so I’m here for the full dozen.”

Her eyes narrow. “This isn’t a package of eggs. It’s my house.”

“Technically, it’s Cap’s,” I counter, tilting my head and taking her in again. Those bright blue eyes. Her heated cheeks. Her cherry-red lips. That mouth looked like Christmas ribbon I wanted wrapped around my—

“Fine. Dad said you can sleep in the barn.”

“What? No.” I twist and glance at the large structure, worn and faded, scratched and weathered. I wasn’t sleeping in a barn like a fucking animal. Turning back to her, I demand, “Just give me a room.”

“No room at the inn,” she mocks, before chewing at the corner of her mouth, like she’s fighting a smile.

Ha . Funny. “Come on, Paradise.”

She twists her lips and leans her head against the open door, eyeing me for a long, skeptical minute.

“I get it. I’m a stranger to you but I work with Cap. If I touched you, he’d have my balls.”

Her head pops upright. “If you touched me, I’d have your balls. And I’d roast them like teeny-tiny chestnuts over an open fire.”

Yikes . My gut tightens. I squeeze my thighs together.

“And I don’t take orders from you either,” she adds, pointing a finger at me that is oddly similar to how Cap holds his hand when his trigger is aimed at me. “I’m head elf here.”

The corner of my mouth curls and I fight to control the growing grin. She’s kind of cute when she’s trying to be stern. She can not pull off scowling schoolteacher, but I’d still let her reprimand me. I’d be happy to be on her naughty list.

“Got it, snowflake,” I mock, saluting her.

“I’ll give you jobs around the place, take notes, and Dad can assess what you’ve done when he returns.”

“Dad,” I chide, like we’re kids and she’s playing mother hen, stealing my rank as top bird in this here apple orchard.

Her glare suggests I’m on thin ice with her. She could slam that door in my face, turn the lock, and stay nice and cozy inside that house. The idea makes me shiver as the cold is settling into my bones again. All the warmth I’d gained while sitting in my truck has dissipated.

“Look, I’m sorry.” My tone is still too rough for the apology. “I promise I’ll behave.”

“I don’t need you to behave—”

Our eyes lock. Her command wasn’t meant to be suggestive, but I have all the suggestions for how we can misbehave together.

Then I hear my balls crackling over a roaring flame, and shiver once more.

Her gaze drops and I instantly miss the cool shock and warm glare in them. For some reason, I want her looking at me. Seeing me.

“I mean . . .” She clears her throat but doesn’t fill in the space, only glances at something over my shoulder.

I’d peer behind me but I’m too afraid to look away from her. Afraid she’ll close this door on me when I need this chance. I need these twelve days.

“You’re welcome.” Her quiet acceptance is like a warm blanket.

“Really?” I shouldn’t sound so surprised, and I quickly swallow my shock and try again. “I mean, excellent.” I’d love to promise she won’t regret it. I’ll make the top of Santa’s good boy list. However, I’m not good at making promises, and I’m not about to start becoming a liar. I offer one simple truth.

“You have nothing to fear from me.”

She tilts her head to the side, leaning it once more against the solid front door, holding firm to her position as keeper of the warm indoors. Another minute passes between us before she makes some mental decision, steps back and holds the door open wider.

“Somehow I doubt that,” she mutters as I pass her but I don’t question her meaning.

The sudden heat hits me first.

The fragrant scent of something cinnamon and sweet baking is next.

However, the sight before me is what has me tongue-tied.

The living room hosts a huge stone fireplace dressed in evergreen garland with white fairy lights twinkling amid the mix. Bright red ribbons hold the entire strand against a railroad tie-sized wooden mantel. A lumpy-looking three cushion couch faces the giant hearth while an over-stuffed red plaid chair sits in the corner. A giant Christmas tree stands beside it, bursting with ornaments and more miniature lights.

The small kitchen is open to the living space with a rectangular wooden table and six ladder-back chairs in a tight dining area. Black cabinets with a butcher block countertop in a U-formation look hand-crafted and wrap around the dining table, centering the space.

Essentially, the sight is something straight out of a magazine depicting Santa’s quaint home in the North Pole.

“I guess you can sleep in Dad’s room,” Paradise mutters more to herself, leaving me standing just inside the front door, stomping my boot-covered feet.

“I need to grab my bag,” I state, remembering my duffle is in the truck.

Paradise gives me a back-handed wave as she retreats down a hallway between the living room and kitchen.

After retrieving my bag, I quickly return inside the warm house, shucking off my jacket and helping myself to hang it on the peg rack already laden with coats and scarves. A bench rests beneath the collection, and I unlace my boots and toe them off, setting them inside an empty cubby underneath the seat.

Rubbing my hands together, I step up to the fire in the hearth that’s both a hazard and magical. The space is large and deep, and while the fire is set toward the back of the open space, the flame isn’t contained behind a fire-resistant mess grate or glass doors. The size and shape of this fireplace is something straight out of a Western movie.

I stand before it, hands held open and upright, mesmerized by the warm blaze and dancing heat. Being a fireman, a dichotomy exists within me. Fear and respect for flames.

I glance up at a wooden set of doors over the fireplace where a bird is painted on each panel, each almost kissing the other but separated by the sliver of a seam. The decoration looks Scandinavian and very apropos for the rest of the décor in this place. Upon closer inspection of the slightly misshapen outlines to the scratchy brush strokes within them, it looks like a child painted each bird.

Underneath one bird is written Pear. Beneath the other is Peach.

I snort. Peach and Pear . Cute.

“My dad loves this fireplace. It’s one of the reasons he bought this farm.”

Paradise’s quiet voice startles me. I didn’t hear her approach, nor notice that she was standing right beside me, gazing up at the painted birds as I had been doing.

“Cute birds,” I quip.

Paradise huffs once. Her arms are crossed, and she can’t seem to take her eyes off the birds. She’s changed into a pair of loose-legged ivory pants and a matching cropped sweater that hits the top of her waistband. The material looks soft, fluffy almost, reminding me once more of a snowflake.

“Dad thinks this place was originally a one room cabin. Hence the large fireplace and open concept.” She nods toward the hallway without removing her eyes from the decorated panels. “The rest of the house, which includes two bedrooms and a bathroom, was an addition.”

I don’t really have a response to her explanation of the blueprint, so I remain quiet, absorbing more heat and finding strange comfort in her close proximity.

“I suppose I need to feed you,” she eventually says, pulling her gaze from the decoration and glancing at me. Her eyes roam the length of my body from head to toe.

Yeah, I’m fit which also means I like to eat. Meat. Potatoes. Willing women who look like snow—

“I’m not here to cater to you.”

My shoulders stiffen. “I can fend for myself.”

“Really? Gonna go kill an innocent reindeer for me? Or rustle us up a roast beast?”

I glare at her, uncertain how to respond to either reference. I’m no hunter. I like my meat from the freezer section.

“How about we start with what you have here? I can hit up a grocery store tomorrow.” My gaze drifts to the window behind the kitchen table that offers a direct view of the heavy, wet snow, falling harder and piling higher in the drive.

“I intended to go myself.” Her voice lowers, and I catch her looking in the same direction. With the way it is snowing, neither of us should be going anywhere. “But it might have to be Christmas leftovers this evening.”

“That works for me.” My typical breakfast of morning coffee wasn’t enough today and I’m starving.

“For now, I guess I could make pancakes.”

“Smells like something is already baking.” Once again, the strong scent of cinnamon tickles my nose.

“Shit.” Paradise rushes the few feet to the kitchen. “I almost forgot the pie.”

Following her, I chuckle as she lowers the oven door and pulls out a pie sizzling on a well-used cooking sheet.

“That smells like heaven.” I sniff once more and my mouth waters at the combination of something sweet and spicy filling the air.

“You think?” Her voice falters, lowering with hesitancy.

Stepping closer to her, I exaggerate inhaling, waving my hand toward my nose as if the fragrant fumes will drift faster into my olfactory senses.

“What is that?” I’m practically salivating at what I assume is an apple crumble pie, piping hot and fresh from the oven.

“A Dutch pear pie. I’m trying out a new recipe.”

“You made that?” Before me on the stove top is a baked-good of perfection. Crumbles and a braided crust, not to mention the scent.

Glancing at Paradise, she chews at the corner of her mouth again. “I bake when I’m stressed.”

I stand taller, realizing her stress is from my presence. I don’t want to make her feel put out or uncomfortable, but I can’t leave.

“I’m sorry.” The words burn like hot coals as I don’t say them often. How many times should I have apologized to Melissa? How often should I have said the phrase to my kids, especially my son Nick who I ride hard? Even Eleanor who never deserves my harsh tone or tough attitude. “I’m the problem, right?”

Paradise sets the potholder on the counter and straightens to face me. “I bet a real problem of yours is realizing not everything is about you.”

“Harsh,” I mumble. Too often I’m told I’m the issue. Loud-mouthed. Hot-headed. Quick-fisted. All my body parts are out of control.

“How about pie and hot chocolate for breakfast?” Paradise turns away from me, retrieving a pie cutter from a drawer and then removes two mugs in the shape of Santa heads from a mug rack.

“I’m a coffee man,” I proudly admit.

“Then hot chocolate it is, as I don’t know how to use the coffee maker.”

Ignoring my wish, she sets a pot on the stove and fills it with milk, adds cocoa mix, and stirs. She’s a regular Betty Crocker minus the apron and full of curves. I warn myself to stop staring at her ass in those form fitting white pants, which on closer inspection are made of some kind of stretchy material.

When our pie breakfast is plated and cups of hot chocolate prepared, she steps toward the table, and I rush to pull out her chair. I can’t remember the last time I did such a thing for a woman. I’m not a total pig, but we aren’t on a date. I don’t need to impress her. Still, I can’t seem to help myself.

Paradise glances up at me, her face unreadable before she takes a seat and I follow, sitting opposite her.

She lifts her holiday mug and taps it against mine without offering any toast. Then she sips her hot cocoa and closes her eyes humming. For half a second, I imagine that sound coming from those naturally cherry-colored lips as I touch her.

Then I shake my head, ridding it of the heavenly image, and focusing instead on the pie before me. With a hearty slice on my fork, I scope up the pie, and shovel it into my mouth.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” I mutter around a steamy mouthful, all sense of manners and decorum melted away as my mouth burns and I swallow a scorching bite of pie.

Leaning into the hard back of her chair and covering her mouth while watching me fan my hand before my open lips, Paradise chuckles. “You’re kind of a mess, fireman.”

“You have no idea, snowflake.”