Chapter 4

[Pear]

Snowflake?

Cute but not exactly complimentary. I’m a sturdy girl which means I’m more like an ice-packed snowball than a dainty snowflake. And I’m not afraid to use such as a weapon of choice, if need be, with this hot mess of a man. He could use some cooling off and I’m not just referring to his mouth where he rushed to shove pie fresh from the oven into his appropriately named pie-hole.

The alpha energy coming off him could vaporize the snow piling up outside. I bet the heat he produces works at melting panties as well, but I’m not here to have my underwear liquidized. I have my own issues at hand, and as I told him, he isn’t always the focus of a situation.

“So, what’s your story, Paradise?”

I pull my leg up, so my heel rests on the edge of my seat, and I wrap my arm around my bent knee. Setting my chin on the bony notch, I stare across the table at Brock.

“Not how this works, fireman. My story needs to be earned.” This isn’t some random first date where we speed through monotonous interview questions. What do you do? Where do you work? How long have you lived in Atlanta? Why did you move here? Blah-blah-blah . . .

Brock arches one of his bushy brows and watches me. His gaze flits to my lips. With the way his eyes keep roaming over my body, he’s either easily distracted or vaguely interested. It’s always one or the other with guys like him. The way his gaze keeps falling to my mouth I either have food on my lips or he’s envisioning things I won’t be doing to him. I’m not here for flesh snacks and pithy seduction.

“Let’s discuss what you’ll be doing.”

I really thought Brock would drive away. Dad wasn’t here. I was. And without my dad to keep Brock in check, I figured he’d take a free pass to leave. But something in his cold-coal eyes told me he needed this second chance. Or third. Or fourth. He needed to prove himself to Dad. Maybe even prove his worth to himself.

So, while I am surprised he returned to the door after searching for a hotel, I’d taken the time to compile a list of things Brock could do around this place. For Dad .

“You’ll start with canning pears.”

“I’ll what?”

“We need the stock.” I have no idea if this is true but canning pears feels appropriate for phase one of Operation Grouchy.

He glances over his shoulder, further narrowing his eyes to glare out the window behind him. The snow is really piling up and I’m not certain how he’ll accomplish some of the other things on the list. Not my problem, though.

“I thought this was an apple orchard.”

“Dad grows apples and pears.”

Brock turns back toward me and glances down at the still-steaming slice of pie. “Did the pears in this pie come from your trees?”

“Yes. I opened a jar we had on hand, but our supply will only get us so far. We have Valentine’s to contend with.” Since I’m making this up as I go, I’m hopeful training from my theatre days, which peaked in high school, still work.

“Valentine’s,” he snorts. “A little early for the next holiday, don’t you think? We haven’t even reached New Year’s.” His nose wrinkles like he just remembered he’ll be here—with me—when the new year rolls over.

Not exactly the New Year’s plan I had either, buddy.

“Yes, nothing says love like a jar of pears.”

Brock stares at me and it takes everything in me not to burst out laughing at the expression on his face. He doesn’t know whether to believe me or tease me. While I’m trying to act as if I’m serious, who the hell would give pears to their lover? And who else is gullible enough to believe a jar of pears would be romantic?

Making an assumption, I bet Brock is a shitty gift giver, like Reggie, my ex-husband.

On our first holiday together, he gave me a George Foreman grill because he knows I like to eat. Not exactly romantic.

“Anyway, I’ll set you up and—”

“I don’t know anything about canning pears.”

“Unfortunately for me, I’m going to have to teach you.” This is the only item on the Brock-provement list that should involve me. I didn’t need Brock burning down the house. However, I have no intention of holding his hand through the canning process. I’ll set him up with the pears, syrup, and water, and all he’ll need to do is boil and fill jars. Easy.

A memory hits. Mom in our old Chicago kitchen, following the same simple recipe. We didn’t own the orchard when I was a kid. This property was acquired later by Dad.

Our dream , he’d whispered when he first brought me here.

Next comes a vision of my sister and me dancing around the kitchen table singing some silly made-up song about pears, like we were performing an ancient ritual to fruit goddesses.

A pear song from a pair of sisters .

Quickly, I brush away both memories and cut into my pie. Filling my mouth with my most recent experiment prevents me from talking, and the last thing I want to do is share more information than necessary with Brock.

Instead, I focus on the celebration in my mouth. The warmth of the filling. The flakiness of the crust in combination with the crumbles. The right combination of nutmeg, cinnamon, and Anjou pears. Closing my eyes again, I savor the flavors, the temperature, and the texture. God, I love good food, especially excellent desserts.

I’d always wanted to be a baker.

Instead, I work— worked —in the food industry for a top company in pre-packaged food. The product wasn’t necessarily enticing, but the job had paid my bills, and I had plenty until recently.

Brock and I eat in silence. His head bows as he scarfs down the remainder of his slice, then sheepishly asks for a second. He doesn’t touch his hot chocolate; instead snagging a second Santa mug from the rack and helping himself to water from the tap.

“What the hell is this?” He sputters and coughs around the mineral tang of the water while swiping the back of his hand over his mouth.

“It’s well-water. There’s a filter on the fridge.”

“This tastes like ass.”

“Really? Tasted one lately, have you?”

He smirks. “Funny.”

What’s your story, Brock Scroggs? What did he do to earn him a twelve-day retreat with Dad? How much trouble is he in with his department? How close is he to losing his job?

None of it should matter to me. I didn’t need another deadbeat man in my life. Been there. Got rid of that, thank you very much.

After Reggie, a long time passed before I was able to go on a date. I was as selective as Santa making a list. I’d seen the good. I learned to recognize the bad. Brock seemed to straddle the line somehow. List destination to be determined, I decided, and although Christmas was only yesterday, there was no better time than the present to start making a new list for next year.

Brock had pulled out my chair. A check in the plus column.

He was a helluva good-looking man but looks didn’t earn you points when behavior was the key.

Guess we’ll see how naughty or nice he can be .

Even though Christmas has officially passed, the true twelve days of the season began today, on December twenty-sixth. I didn’t have romantic notions of a true love gifting me a partridge in a pear tree, but it would still have been nice to spend the holidays with a partner. A couple coupling.

I almost laugh out loud at my ridiculous thought and drop my foot to the floor, leaning forward to lift my cooling hot chocolate.

Brock doesn’t know what he’s missing out on. This is Aunt Bertie’s special recipe, complete with a dash of peppermint extract and a shot of complementary Schnapps.

There’s no better comfort and joy than chocolate and alcohol.

’Tis still the season , I silently toast my new housemate, and then down the rest of my drink.

+ + +

Canning pears was a disaster for Brock. I’d set him up as promised and then excused myself for a winter’s day nap. A girl shouldn’t live on two hot chocolates with shots of peppermint flavored alcohol and a slice of pie, but I’d been silently toasting my sister’s absence.

When I awoke, I had a text from my Dad but I was distracted when I found the kitchen was a mess; Brock was swearing; and I’m not certain a single jar was properly sealed.

Lots of disappointed lovers come Valentine’s Day .

“Well,” I groan, setting my hands on my hips, while chewing my lower lip, fighting a giggle at Brock’s expense. He wears an apron that is slightly askew on his hips with what had to be a dribble of pear syrup down a T-shirt that hugs his chest. His hair stands up on end, possibly from sticky fingers covered in pear juice, and his facial hair has already started growing in since I’d first met him this morning.

Scanning his appearance from toe to top, I do a double take at his jaw.

I’d guess Brock to be mid-forty and nothing said yum like a dusting of gray in dark hair, but he has charred-coal coloring in his scruff, and I am poke-me-with-a-fork-and-hope-the-tines-come-out-clean done if that beard comes in more silver than ink. I’ll need to keep my libido in check around all the alpha energy and a silvery beard.

“I told you I didn’t know what I was doing,” he reminds me, angry while sheepish at the same time.

Something inside me turns gooey. Do not be soft for him . This is no cinnamon roll standing in front of me. He’s entitled, in trouble, and bad for my heart. Not that my heart wants anything to do with him, it’s just that I’m a sucker for bad boys. Or rather, menacing men. With silver in their beards.

Rubbing a shaky hand across my forehead, I sigh. “I’ll clean up.” I shouldn’t offer. This is not my responsibility. I’m here for rest and relaxation. I’m here for my own restorative retreat and I’d needed my dad.

“I’ve got it,” Brock mutters.

“I’m worried if you have it any more than you already do, we’ll be swimming in pear juice, sticking to the furniture, or torching the place.”

A flame leaps up around the currently boiling over pot of water, syrup, and pear combination to accentuate my statement.

“Shit,” Brock mutters, stepping toward the stove and picking up the pot by the handle with his bare hand.

He immediately drops the pot back down on the stove top, syrup sloshing over and causing the flame to sizzle once more. Hissing, he shakes out his right hand while twisting the burner dial with his left. Next, he rushes to the sink and hits the cold-water tap with the heel of his opposite hand and places the offended hand underneath the rush of water.

“Did you burn yourself?” I step forward and examine the raw skin as water pours over his tender flesh. Brock has huge hands, like a giant paw, and I shouldn’t have the visions suddenly dancing in my head of those hands on me, cupping me in places that haven’t been cupped in a while, palming me in other places that haven’t felt the heat of another’s palm in too long.

“That was so dumb,” he mutters to himself, adding in additional expletives. “What a fucking idiot. This was so stupid.”

“Hey!” I snap, dragging his attention to me while his hand remains underneath the spray from the faucet. “Don’t talk about yourself like that. You aren’t stupid.”

“I didn’t say I was stupid. This is stupid.” He nods toward the mess.

“When someone says something is stupid, it’s often not that the process is dumb, but the person doing the process feels helpless because the task is difficult. They don’t understand the process and it makes them uncomfortable.”

“No, I really mean this is stupid,” he corrects me.

But I’m onto something. Brock is reactive when he feels out of control, and canning pears evidently made him feel that way.

He tips up his chin. “Why would you care anyway? I’m wasting your time and mine here.”

I don’t have an answer for the caring part but as for wasting his time . . . “Then quit and go home.”

I could use the alone time and I could also do without his alpha attitude and manly mess. Pieces of pear in syrupy globs decorate the floor from stove to table, and a streak of pear juice runs down the front of the oven. Splashes of more pear sauce splatter left and right of jars scattered all over the table which was thankfully covered with an easy-to-wipe liquid resistant tablecloth, but still.

My sister and I could have done a better job at seven years old than this man at forty-five.

Brock glares a second. Those dark eyes are as black as coal, but underneath that hard surface is the potential to be a diamond. Something that might shine one day.

Only a moment passes before a flicker of light returns to his eyes, determination settling in. “I am not a quitter.” He reaches for what appears to be a well-used dish towel and wraps his burned hand in the cloth.

“That doesn’t look very sanitary.” I pull open a drawer and remove a clean towel.

“I didn’t cut myself. It’s only a burn.” Removing the towel, he shakes out his hand and examines the redness of his flesh. The skin looks raw. He might get blisters.

I reach into an upper cupboard where Dad keeps aloe vera gel for such a thing.

Cupping his wrist, I draw him to the dining table and point for him to take a seat. I pull up a chair directly in front of him and sit as well. Taking his larger hand in mine, the difference in sizes is blatant. He already has calluses beneath the burns. I lift his hand, pour the gel over his raw palm, and blow across the tender flesh, cooling any irritation. Slowly, I glance up at Brock, feeling the weight of his gaze on me. His eyes blaze, like that cold-coal glare has caught fire.

As the gel settles, he hisses before loudly quipping, “That fucking stings.”

“I’m only trying to help,” I remind him as my voice rises to match his.

“Again, why do you care?” His head pops up from examining his hand and I lift my eyes to answer him. Only any response gets caught in my throat once more.

While I want to tell him I don’t care about him, something deep inside me hints I should.

And I have no reasonable explanation for why.

+ + +

Cleaning up Brock’s pear-catastrophe took more than an hour. Afterward, I sent him to the shower, reminding him to reapply the aloe vera gel, before I started working on our dinner of leftovers. Dad’s freezer is stocked but the fridge is lacking. As he hadn’t planned on being here for two weeks and hadn’t expected me, the basics are present but fresh foods are absent.

As I’m removing the lid from a plastic container, my nail catches and bends backwards, ripping off a portion of the nail below the bed.

“Shit.” Shaking out my hand, I step toward the sink and turn on the cold water, placing my hand underneath the stream, similar to how Brock had done earlier. A slow trickle of red runs through the water.

“What happened?”

“Jesus in a manger,” I shriek, having been startled by Brock’s sudden appearance. Not only did I not hear him, but freshly showered Brock, standing too close to me Brock, is like an aphrodisiac Brock. He smells like winter mint and fresh snow, and looks too good in a camel-brown sweater that hugs his chest like the plastic wrapper on candy.

Which flavor is he?

Brock tenderly cups my hand beneath the cold water and examines where my nail has chipped like a broken claw.

“That’s gonna hurt,” he mutters.

“Well, aren’t you all compassion?” Especially after I spread aloe vera gel on his hand earlier.

He doesn’t reply but takes his time to add gentle pressure to my finger, watching until the water runs clean of blood. The pad of his thumb rubs up and down my finger, stroking a little longer than necessary.

“We make quite a pair, Paradise,” he says still inspecting my finger while massaging the digit.

“Pear,” I whisper.

“A pair, that’s what I said.”

“No, pear. P – E – A – R. That’s what my dad calls me. Pear, short for paradise but also like the fruit.”

His gaze blatantly drops to my chest before his eyes leap to meet mine. A crooked smile curls his lips. “A pair of pears.”

“Don’t be crass.” Besides my breasts are bigger than a set of pears.

He chortles without apologizing. “We, you and me, make a pair, Pear.”

“You’re such a dick.” Mocking my nickname when I thought I was offering a piece of myself to him sets my stomach churning. I don’t know why I shared the name with him. Only my dad calls me such a thing. “Forget it. Don’t use the name.”

“Come on, snowflake.” He chuckles. “Don’t freeze me out.”

Forget calling him a dick. He’s worse. “Yeah, calling the fat girl a snowflake is really original.”

Brock gasps, loud and strangled, while squeezing my hand more firmly. His voice drops low, almost menacing when he says, “What did you say?”

“I’m not repeating myself.” I’m actually rather body-positive and have decent self-esteem, but I haven’t always been like this. Reggie did a negative number on me when I was in a vulnerable state, and it took a long time to reach zero again.

“You better fucking not because I never want to hear you use fat in a sentence again, especially if you are referring to yourself. Which I know you were not just doing.” The tipping of his bushy brow accentuates his point. He’s not listening to this bullshit.

“The only thing I want to know about your size is how well those hips might fit in my hands. How that ass feels against my palms. And how that mouth might take my—”

“Got it.” I cut him off. He’s still crass, but am I turned on? Yes. Yes, I am. And that’s new.

“Why the snowflake nickname then?”

Brock lowers his head, examines my finger a final time, and turns off the faucet. He grabs a paper towel to wrap around my finger for a makeshift bandage. Still holding onto my finger, he glances up at my face.

“Because when I saw you earlier, you looked like you dropped from heaven. Wearing all those layers in various shades of white, like a snowflake. And even now, wearing this fluffy sweater that looks so soft. Snowflake.” His voice drops as his gaze lowers once more to my chest. He isn’t leering, isn’t perving. Just admiring. And while that dropping from heaven line could have been the cheesiest of pick-ups, there’s a hint of sincerity in his voice that stops any mocking retort from rolling off my tongue.

Instead, my nipples harden within my bra while my face heats.

Brock lowers his head and presses a kiss to the tip of my paper-towel wrapped finger, like kissing away a boo-boo.

I suck in a breath, shocked by the tender display.

Slowly, his head lifts. “We’d make quite the pair, snowflake. But I’m too hard for your soft.”

My breath catches again. He isn’t talking about body parts. He’s talking about him.

“I need to make a phone call.” The abrupt change in his demeanor leaves me speechless as he excuses himself.

Holding a paper towel around my finger, I remain in the kitchen wondering what he meant.

Who made you hard, fireman?

And what would it take to soften him?