Chapter 5

[Brock]

Dinner last night was both strained and silent. I couldn’t seem to pull my eyes away from her. I hated what I heard her say about herself. Even worse was that she thought I was calling her names. I might be a mean bastard, but I’d never do that.

She was fucking beautiful with that dark hair in contrast to her white clothing. I wanted to see that dark hair spread out on an ivory pillow and the rest of her pale skin on display, but I wasn’t allowing myself the vision. Not after admitting how I’d like to feel her beneath my hands.

We could never be a couple. Which was too bad because I missed coupling. Not just the sex but the companionship. The one plus one equals one. The soft to my hard.

Rolling my head on the bed pillow, I stare at a picture on Cap’s nightstand. When Pear first brought me to his bedroom, I felt a little strange taking his bed. However, I either slept here or on the sofa, and while that living room furniture looked comfy, it also appeared a little too well-loved for my aging back.

The image of two girls, roughly six- or seven-years old, smiling with a matching set of missing front teeth stares back at me. Each girl has some kind of circular chest shield on their front. One has a scarf around her eyes with slits for the eye holes. The other has a scarf pushed back on her head like a headband.

Are they dressed like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles ?

I’m reminded of my own kids at such a young age. I worked a lot back then. Two days on. One day off. Still, I made the time to be involved with Nick and Ellie. Taking on lunch duty at the school when parent-volunteers were needed. Helping coach Little League baseball and Pop Warner football for Nick. I attended all of Ellie’s dance recitals and Girl Scout stuff. Sometimes I’d be the only dad in the audience for her things.

My active attendance was a result of my own father’s absence. Deciding one day he didn’t want a family anymore, he left Ma, me, my younger brother, Zebb, and my little sister, Marnie, to fend for ourselves. People like to say Zebb took on the responsibility of caring for the family. He got a scholarship to the fancy college, played in the NFL, and made the big bucks. He came home a hero as a single dad to the most amazing little girl.

However, I’d gone directly into the CFD upon graduating high school because we couldn’t afford to send an average kid to college. Scholarships didn’t knock on the door of a star athlete with mediocre grades. And I couldn’t leave Ma alone with Zebb and Marnie. Someone had to stay behind and take care of the old house, plus help with my siblings.

I’d done that.

So , I let off steam once in a while. Caused a little trouble here and there. Was too loud.

My heart has always been in the right place. For Ma. For Zebb and Marnie, too. Their lives hadn’t been any easier than mine in some ways, but I still tried to ease their paths.

As for my kids, I showed up day and night, even when Melissa and I started to fight. When she wanted more, and we didn’t have the means. She took a job and started contributing to the household funds, but also spent more than we made collectively. I didn’t want to deny my wife nice things, but we couldn’t always purchase the most expensive items either. I wasn’t a miser; but I wasn’t a millionaire.

We bought a house that needed work, and I fixed it up which took time, effort, and patience.

We sent our kids to the fancy private school, valuing the education and dismissing the cost, but it didn’t entitle Nick to get a Jeep at sixteen or allow Ellie to own some fancy-schmancy purse and shoes like the other girls.

My kids didn’t complain. Melissa did.

Instead, I tried to be present for my kids. I wanted them to understand working hard and being an honest person paid off, but had I told them often enough how proud I was of them? How Nick was my hero for sticking his ground and sticking up for the underdog at times. Or telling Ellie she wasn’t just the apple of my eye but everything I’d hoped would come to fruition in a daughter of mine. Strong, independent, a smart young woman. Beautiful, both inside and out.

For some reason, canning pears brought it all back to me. Working hard at something simple helped me remember that not everything needed to be bought from a store. Sure, it was easier at times. Maybe even cheaper in some cases. But there was a real sense of accomplishment in creating something from scratch.

I might have made a huge mess in Cap’s kitchen and accepted Pear’s offer to help clean it all up, especially with my hand still stinging, but dammit, it felt good to be productive.

Even if it was Valentine’s Day pears.

Never heard of Valentine pears but I’ll be telling all my friends they need them for their wives and girlfriends.

What said love better than a pear.

+ + +

Slipping into the kitchen, the open concept space is chilly this morning without a blazing fire in the fireplace. Cap’s bedroom had been cool last night but nestled beneath layers of blankets and a thick comforter, I was almost too hot in the middle of the night. I’d slept better than I’d slept in months, maybe years, and I couldn’t explain it because I didn’t like to sleep anywhere but in my own bed.

To my surprise, a bright red mug sits beside the coffee maker which happens to be ON. She didn’t know how to use the machine, my ass.

A note is propped up against a cannister. “Meet me in Dad’s workshop. Second building. Behind the barn.”

A quick glance out the window shows the snow piled up overnight, but a path is formed from the house to the barn.

I don’t like that Paradise has already been up and shoveling snow while I lingered in her dad’s bed staring at a photo of two kids. Assuming the image is Pear and her sister, I don’t recall Cap speaking often about his girls.

Have I not been listening? Have I been that negligent as a co-worker and friend? How did I not know he not only had one daughter but two? Cap lost his wife a long time ago and never remarried.

What was it he said to the guys?

“When you find the one woman that makes you glow inside, every other woman pales in comparison.”

Shaking my head, I chuckle. Never considered Cap romantic.

I glance down at my waiting mug and the coffee dripping into the maker. When was the last time someone had done something that showed they cared about me? I almost laugh at the thought. Then I reconsider. When was the last time I’d done something thoughtful for someone else? And I’m not thinking of Ma or Marnie. But for a woman.

Staring at the coffee maker filling with liquid gold, I search for an answer and come up empty. My chest squeezes at the void.

Pear called me crass yesterday, then a dick. I shouldn’t care what she thinks of me, but I do. I don’t need her to like me, but I don’t want her to think poorly of me either.

It shouldn’t matter.

But it does.

+ + +

I wasn’t surprised to find Pear, as I was planning to call her, in white snow bibs and a white sweatshirt. The ivory-colored knit cap was on her head again, but her hands were busy sanding a spindle-backed bench. Hunched over with her ass in the air, her back is to me as I enter.

“What is all this?” I chuckle, glancing around at the collection of tools, a work bench, and several pieces of furniture in various states of disrepair. A cast-iron, wood-burning stove stands in a corner taking the chill out of the air, but not actually heating the space of this single-story structure that appeared as rundown on the outside as the barn. However, it’s rather cozy inside this space.

Pear lifts her head, her eyes wide. “You really need to come with a warning. ”

As she focuses on me, my face heats and I arch a brow. Good to know she finds me attractive. “Oh really?”

“Yeah, a nice set of sleigh bells to let someone know you’re approaching.” She stands upright and faces me.

“Oh.” I scoff. Not attracted to me . Got it. “Anyway . . . what’s all this?”

“Day two for you.” She giggles at her own rhyme. “Dad mentioned you are good at wood working.”

Is she questioning my ability? And did she say her dad has mentioned me? Who knows what Cap has told Pear about me. Probably the truth. Which worries me more than it should.

She continues, “So he has this dresser.” She points toward a low, three-drawer dresser painted white.

“And that child’s cabinet.” She nods toward a mid-chest-high piece of furniture with one long drawer at the top and several smaller ones stacked on top of each other next to a low door. The piece is rather unique.

“A few of the dovetail joints are missing.” Pear steps closer to the first dresser. “In fact, the front panel for this one is broken, and I’m hoping you can repair it.”

I stare at Pear a long moment before stepping closer to the furniture and inspecting the structure. Dovetailing is a traditional way to build furniture and cabinets, and a craft that went out of style for a while, then returned to fashion. With pressed wood being the major component of most modern furniture, it’s rare to find dovetail work in pieces unless the item has been hand-crafted or is an antique. This set of dressers falls into both categories.

“I’d need glue and a hand chisel, and—” I stop as Pear opens her arm to wave around us.

“Everything you need should be here and if it’s not, you’ll need to make do. Dad’s words. Not mine.” Pear shakes her head like she’s exasperated by her father or maybe she’s just sick of playing messenger.

“Maybe you should just give me the list of things Cap wants done and I’ll check them off as I go. ”

“No can do, fireman. Dad says—” She cuts herself short when I start to scoff.

I’ve lost count on how many times she says Dad says . “Look, just give me the list.”

“No.” Her firm tone is accentuated when she places her hands on her hips. “You’ll get a project every day and—”

“If you give me the list, I can speed things up. Maybe cut out two birds with one stone, maybe even three in a day.”

“I don’t want you taking out two birds. You have twelve days to fulfill.”

“Aw, snowflake, are you trying to keep me here?” I chide. “That’s sweet.”

“You wish.” She rolls her eyes and returns to sanding the bench. Her delicate hand wraps around a spindle, and she works it up and down, up and down, rubbing at the cylinder piece in sharp, quick jerks to strip it clean.

My thoughts run rampant.

Jesus . I rub a hand down my face, feeling the scratch of my scruff. I need to get a grip on myself and the internal innuendo. Visions of her stroking me that way, giving me a release, have no place here.

Removing my jacket as the space is warm enough and working will only further heat me, I look through Cap’s tools and find an old hand chisel. What I really need is a dovetail saw . . . and oh my God , Cap has one, plus a square level and beveled angle level. Cap’s work bench is a woodworker’s dream.

“I didn’t know Cap was into woodworking or building furniture.”

“Oh, he’s not. This stuff was left over from when Dad bought the place. The former owner was a cabinet maker or something like that.”

Admiring the tools I’ll use, I run my fingertips over the edges. The sharp angles. The dulled points.

“You okay?” Pear asks.

“It’s nothing.” I step over to the dresser first, examining what needs to be done. The piece of furniture is small and white, which leads me to believe it belonged to a child at one time .

“Tell me,” she prompts.

“It’s stu—” I glance up at her, catching her eyes and watching her brows sternly press together, daring me to say the word. As much as I want her to playfully scold me like the bad boy I can be, this is different.

“I’d love to build furniture.”

“Really?” Those pinched brows hitch higher, surprise and curiosity filling her blue eyes.

“Yes, really.” Is it so hard to believe? “My ex didn’t believe I could. She wanted . . . well, it doesn’t matter.”

Pear is quiet a moment, but I can feel her eyes on me as I crouch down to further inspect the busted drawer.

“I have an ex, too.”

I freeze before slowly standing. “Who the fuck would leave you?”

Those raised brows morph into a startled expression. “Actually, I left him.”

“Of course you did.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” With her hip cocked, she places one fist on it and glares at me, those blue eyes icy.

“It means no man in his fucking right mind would leave you. You had to have left him. What he’d do? Take all your money? Fuck your best friend? Leave you with the kids?”

With my mouth running, I hardly notice Pear lower her head, eyes drifting to the cement floor at our feet.

“You don’t deserve that story, either.” She turns back to the bench she’s working on, her hand moving faster over the spindle. Her attention aggressive and hyper-focused.

Fuck! I turn back toward the broken dresser but pause, staring blindly down at the open drawer and the tools I spread on the top surface.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter.

The distinct sound of sandpapering continues.

“I said, I’m sorry,” I say louder and turn to face Pear.

She stills but doesn’t remove her hand from the spindle or draw her eyes away from the bench .

“That’s what happened to me. My story. She broke us financially. Then fucked my best friend in our bed. Left me and the kids for Kenny. Fucking Kenny.” I turn back toward the dresser and place both my hands on the top. Spreading my arms, I lean on the piece as if I need support. “I’m over it. But sometimes, it still stings.”

I pause. “She wanted more than I could give her, but even if I gave her everything, I don’t think she’d ever have been happy.” Quietly, I add, “With me.”

Silence filters between us. I close my eyes. Fucking Kenny. Sometimes it hurt more that I’d lost my best friend than my wife.

“He said I was getting fat.”

I spin so fast my hip hits the dresser and it wobbles. With a firm hand slapping the top, the furniture stills, but I keep my hand on the surface, bracing myself once more.

“He said what?” I see fire. Flames are certain to be flashing in my eyes. Smoke steaming out my ears.

Pear glances away from me, gaze fixated on something across the room. “I’d married him during a vulnerable time in my life.”

She shrugs and peers back at me. “My worth isn’t measured by my dress size, but he was no longer happy with me. How I looked. How I dressed. None of that mattered, though, compared to how he used me, lied to me, much like your ex-wife. He had a gambling problem. Put up our house as collateral without telling me. Loans and liens on almost everything we’d owned. We owed three years’ worth of back taxes. It was a financial shitshow.”

Her eyes turn cloudy. “He was interested in staying married, only he was no longer interested in me.” Rapidly blinking away the storm, she adds. “And I didn’t want or need what he offered. I’m worth more than that.”

“Damn right you are.”

With our eyes locked on one another, my body vibrates with anger. The desire to close the distance between us and pull her to my chest is powerfully strong. I want to draw her close to me, and yet, at the same time, I’m afraid. Afraid she’ll break me. Afraid I’ll break her .

“We’re quite a pair,” I softly remark.

“A pair,” she whispers.

When I can no longer take the intensity of those blue eyes staring at me, I turn back to the dresser, and at first, mindlessly begin working on repairing the dovetail joints. The soft sound of sandpaper schussing over wood fills my ears, giving me strange comfort. Working to repair the dresser actually brings me joy.

Pear and I seem to have come to an understanding.

Sometimes quiet moments matter more.

+ + +

I not only finished working on both dressers, but asked if there was anything else I could do.

Pear’s gaze fixates on the child’s pieces for a long moment before stating, “I’m not certain why Dad saved the white one. It belonged to my sister. As for the child’s chest, I think he was just putzing with that one. Maybe planning to resell it.”

“Is that the plan for the bench?”

Pear turns her gaze back to the bench which has had a thorough sanding and looks ready to be stained or painted. A soft smile curls her lips. “The bench was my mother’s. From our old house back in Chicago. Dad could never part with it after Mom—” Pear shakes her head, unable to speak.

Cap’s wife was Pear’s mom. How had I not put two and two together?

“When did she pass?”

“I was eleven.”

“My dad left when I was ten. Not quite the same thing, but I know Cap never remarried and neither did my ma.” Another understanding. We were both raised by single parents.

Her tender smile doesn’t change but her eyes shift. Compassion and further understanding fills them. Perhaps a little girl needed her mother growing up. I certainly wish my dad had been present .

Waving a hand in the air, like I’m swatting at dust, I say, “But enough sad stories for one day, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Her voice remains quiet as she turns back to the bench but slowly stands. Her hands press at her lower back, and she arches backward. “I don’t think my body is made to squat like that for so long. I’m not as flexible as I used to be.”

Lifting my hand to my mouth, I bite my knuckles. Images of her in a variety of positions race through my head. On her back. On her knees. I don’t need her to be flexible. I just want to be close to her. But we’ve already established there’s a thin line between us. One called her dad, and the other called my penance. I’m not here to mess anything up.

Still, I can’t help the visions dancing in my head of her and me, and an overstuffed bed.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, fireman,” she calls, giving me a knowing smirk.

I chuckle. “How’d you know it was in the gutter?”

“You have a certain gleam in your eye when your thoughts drop below my belt.”

“Oh yeah. Been checking out my eyes, have you?”

“Been looking below my belt?”

I won’t deny it, but I also won’t admit that I have trouble peeling my gaze from those hips. Or her ass. My fingers itch to dig into that firm flesh and just squeeze.

Something flies through the air, gaining my attention, but dropping before my boot-covered toes. Glancing downward, I find the sandpaper she’d been using balled up and inches from my foot.

“Did you just try to throw something at me?”

She shrugs, but her teeth dig into the corner of her lower lip.

“If you’re gonna toss something—”

“Don’t you dare say I throw like a girl. Like that would be an insult.” Her cocky confidence has my body humming in a new way.

“I was going to say, at least make it something that can go the distance. ”

“Yeah?” She chews harder at her mouth before her eyes shift toward the door.

The energy around us spikes. It’s been a good day. I feel accomplished working on the furniture. I also feel a little lighter sharing about Melissa. The circumstance of my marriage is a familiar tale with the guys in the firehouse. However, the situation isn’t something I easily share with others, especially women. Telling Pear felt right and hearing her story felt good, too.

When her eyes shift left again, I follow her gaze. “What are you looking at?”

She lifts her index finger and taps at her lower lip, drawing my attention to the cherry-red plumpness. “Thinking about what I could throw at you . . . that would go the distance.”

Her heart? The thought is foolish.

“And it’s something over there?” I nod toward the closed work shed door where her eyes shift. A variety of tools are off to the right on a bench. However, I don’t think she’s looking to clobber me over the head with a hammer.

“Not exactly.”

“Something outside?” I question, slowly registering what she might be thinking as I step closer to her. “You wouldn’t?”

“A little snow might be a good way to cool you off, fireman.”

“Admit it, you have the hots for me, snowflake.”

“Oh, I have something for you, alright.”

With that taunt, she’s racing for the door. I drop the tools I’m holding, quick to chase her. With a hard push on the workshop door, the barrier swings open and a blast of snowy air hits us. Pear high-foot steps along the trail she shoveled earlier. In the warmth of the brilliant afternoon sunshine, the path she made has melted into a pebble and ice strip. However, she isn’t running for the house. She stops short near a pile of snow and cups a handful of the icy mixture.

“You’re looking at the snowball champion of Chicago, snowflake,” I warn her as I dip my hands into the snowy drift near me and masterfully form a solid ball. Before I’m finished, something hard and wet pelts my shoulder.

Pear’s mouth falls open when I look at her. Then her hands fist on her hips. “Well, you’re looking at the snowball champion of Paradise Farms.” Her arms spread wide, just begging for me to peg her with the snowball in my hand.

I have a better idea. In three long strides, I’m in her space. When she registers how close I am, she turns to run, but I’m quick to catch her by the cross-back of her snow bibs and tug her to my chest. She removed her knit cap at some point and pulled her hair into a long ponytail, high on the back of her head. With the icy ball packed in my hand, I rub it against the side of her neck to her nape.

“That’s so cold,” she squeals, delight mixing with irritation.

“You said my fire needs some ice.”

“I didn’t say—” Her breath hitches because my warm mouth is sucking at the icy mess melting against her skin and sliding down the back of her neck.

My teeth drag against the column of her throat in a playful squeeze. My lips close around her cold flesh, and I suck.

“ Fuuudge ,” she whispers, low and seductive, while bending forward which brings her backside against my front. Layers prevent us from meeting properly but the wedge in my pants rivals the strength of any tool in the workshop. I’m hard as steel.

With an arm around her waist, and my mouth suctioned to her skin, I travel over her neck, scraping and licking, rolling my tongue against her chilled flesh. I wrap her ponytail around my fist and tug her head back so I can get to the front of her throat. My hand cups her jaw, tilting her head even more. She gasps again.

My lips track her hard swallow, and I drag my teeth over the edge of her chin. My mouth is almost to hers.

Breathlessly, she whispers, “We shouldn’t do this.”

I freeze. Teeth on her chin. Lips eager to close the millimeters between our mouths. Her words weren’t coldly stated. Actually, the heat of her breath tickles my nose. But she’s right .

What am I doing?

Quickly, I stand upright and release her. Running my icy hand down my face, I close my eyes a second before turning my head away from her. Then I bring my attention back to her. Her blue eyes are dilated and wide. Her breath comes short and quick.

“Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m not here to take advantage of you.”

“I know.”

“That was . . .” Uncalled for. Unexpected. Unbelievably fucking hot.

She’s already shaking her head, dismissing anything I might say. “It’s okay. I teased you to chase.” She pats my chest, patronizing and pathetic, as if I’m a silly child. Then, she circles around me and heads back to the workshop while I stand in the cold air, staring up a crystal blue sky that mirrors Pear’s eyes.

Cursing myself, I realize under different circumstances, I’d like the chance to chase her.

No teasing necessary.