Chapter 6

[Pear]

That kiss was so hot, it melted snow. Literally. Bits and pieces had trickled down my back and no amount of cooling could tamp down the heat rushing through my body.

While I cleaned up today’s progress on the bench, Brock returned to the work shed and sheepishly asked if he could use a small chunk of wood he found for something. I shrugged but nodded. We worked in comfortable silence for a while longer, even as the air around us sizzled. I was aware of every noise and movement Brock made, even though I kept my head down, pretending as if that kiss hadn’t just thawed an inch of the ice surrounding my heart.

When we finally exited the workshop together and I locked the door, Brock immediately offered to go to the grocery store. Sensing we needed some space after that near-kiss and heated attack on my neck, I let him go.

Strangely, I worry he won’t come back. This was his out. Not that I was holding him prisoner, but he could drive off and decide not to return. Dad isn’t here to demand Brock focus, and Brock made it clear he’d rather not be here at all.

However, yesterday, he gave pear canning a valiant effort, and today he worked diligently on the set of dressers. Keeping his hands busy might have helped clear his mind. That had been my hope for myself when I started sanding Mom’s old bench. The piece would look perfect here on the front porch of the farmhouse. If this place was my parents’ dream, Dad should have the bench on display, not buried in his work shed with other random antiques. Mom’s favorite piece was meant to be enjoyed and used, not hidden.

That had been Dad’s explanation for the holiday decorations that draped and dripped throughout his house. My mom loved Christmas and their treasured ornaments and traditions should be brought into the light once a year. My dad was rather sentimental. Which also might have explained why he still had the white dresser that belonged to my sister as a child. He had trouble letting go of objects that held memories.

As for me, I often believed it was better to remove an item than to stare it in the face. An object was only an object. It didn’t hold value, at least not mentally.

Seeing my mom’s bench had me second guessing my old opinion. However, I didn’t take the time to delve any deeper into my thoughts, as I had bigger issues.

Personal business to attend to. Namely, relieving the ache Brock had produced with his opened-mouth suction on my neck. The way he held my jaw, positioned between his thumb and forefinger. So dominating. So tantalizing. And then those teeth.

While I stand beneath the spray of a warm shower, I shiver. My skin was chilled from the contrast of the sweat I’d worked up all morning and the snow that melted down my back. But as my body turns pink underneath the heated water, my thoughts turn red hot. Tickling my fingers between my breasts, it feels wrong to be turned on by Brock. Wrong to take care of myself without him present, but isn’t that what men do all the time? A little relief in the shower to clear their heads; pun intended.

As my fingers linger at my waist, drawing circles around my belly button, I smile to myself, recalling Brock’s angry reaction to my comment yesterday about being the fat girl and my admission today about Reggie and his repulsion over the changes in my body. I’ve always been a solid girl. Broad shoulders, wide hips. My stomach was flatter when I was younger. My breasts smaller, too. Each decade seems to add ten pounds, though, and I went through a period where I didn’t try to fight the weight gain.

I typically live life with an equal balance between healthy diet and regular exercise, but I’m not going to deny myself good food or a little fun on occasion. What can I say? I like to eat.

I close my eyes and cleanse myself of the negative reminders of my past. My fingers travel lower, and I envision Brock on his knees before me. That mouth of his, warm and wet, sucking on the sensitive nub currently pulsing with need. Those teeth scraping over tender folds, drawing out the building tension. Then that tongue . . . hmm , his tongue. Long and thick, hot and hungry, would work with teasing aggression like he did against my neck as he devours me.

I shiver once more, but this time with pleasure. As my fingers stroke between my legs, my mouth falls open in a silent gasp. My eyes remain closed, while tiny snowflakes flicker behind my lids and a rush of heat warms my lower belly, sparks flaring against an area that’s been cold for too long.

Brock’s name is a silent whisper in my head as I come hot and fast.

I’m not one to have one-night stands, and I hadn’t been on many dates that lead to more than kissing. My focus has been elsewhere over the past three years, but now . . . this is why I’d come to Paradise Farms.

I wanted a new direction for my stagnant life.

And Brock Scroggs had ignited something else that has been dormant.

My libido is back.

+ + +

When Brock hadn’t returned once I exited the shower and dressed, thoughts of him abandoning his twelve days, now down to almost ten, flit through my head again. Attempting to calm my galloping mind, I start a small fire and curl into the red plaid chair in the corner. I love this spot for reflection and if the Christmas tree wasn’t present, I’d be able to stare out the window from this position.

With another mug of hot chocolate, splashed with a hint of peppermint, minus the alcohol, I ponder my life choices. Decisions I’ve made. Conversations I’ve had. Things that are all so meaningless as I can’t change the past. And wishing I could go back is like shoveling during a snowstorm. Not going to get me anywhere but cold and exhausted.

Through therapy, I’ve been able to release the mistake of marrying Reggie. Forgive myself for the things I hadn’t seen in our marriage. Forgive him for the doubts he placed in me about myself. If nothing else, the past three years have taught me how much of a survivor I am.

I’d stayed in a job I never really loved to work off the debt that Reggie had incurred in our name.

I’d divorced him and sought the help I needed for the mental damage caused in our marriage.

I’d come to terms with tragic personal loss.

What I hadn’t done, though, was tell my dad everything. He’d willingly have given up anything to help me, but I didn’t want that. I hadn’t wanted to lay my burdens on him. He’d had enough in his lifetime. I didn’t want to be the cause of more stress. Plus, I was a grown adult. I’d made my decisions, which turned out to be mistakes, and I had to forgive myself for being human.

I’d fallen. I’d risen back up. In between those two points had been the rough patch.

This didn’t mean I didn’t still have some emotional scars. My issues weren’t abandonment but loss. I’d lost my mother when I was young. I’d lost my way when I married Reggie. I’d lost—

The front door swings open and a blast of cold air whirls into the room, cutting off my rambling thoughts. I stand instantly.

Brock enters, weighed down by plastic grocery bags dangling off each of his wrists. With his booted foot, he nudges the door closed with his heel, and stumbles forward.

“You came back.” A question lingers in the declaration. He wasn’t gone that long, honestly.

Still, my heart is racing, and I place my hand over my chest as if the movement can calm the rapid pattering. Maybe I was more worried than I thought that Brock wouldn’t return. That he’d drive off to Chicago without a word, and I’d never see him again.

The sound of cans and boxes lightly thud on the wooden dining table as Brock struggles to release his wrists from the plentiful sacks.

“What is all this?” I chuckle, attempting to clear the evident surprise and slight relief from my throat as I step closer to the table .

“Explain that reaction.” His rugged voice, growly and demanding, has me lifting my head and meeting his dark eyes.

“What reaction?”

“Why wouldn’t I come back?” His head tilts to the side, and those coal-colored eyes flicker with a tiny speck of light. A diamond hidden in the rough.

I shrug, gazing down at the collection of bags spread across the table. Reaching for one, I toy with the handle to avoid the pressure of him watching me.

“Snowflake?” he encourages.

“I just thought you might want to escape. Heading to the store would be your chance to ditch this gig.” Sheepishly, I glance up to find his eyes wide and mouth agape.

“I am not a quitter.” He’d vehemently said the same thing yesterday but this time his tone is tender, cautious.

“I know, but I still thought . . .”

“I’d never leave without saying goodbye.” His penetrating eyes are still watching me, and I glance down at the grocery bags again. In less than twelve days, goodbye might be the only thing he’ll say to me.

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

How do I explain myself? Was I worried that I’d lose him, too? That was ridiculous. I’d only met him yesterday. So what if he sucked at my neck today in a way I’d never been kissed before. We weren’t life partners. We weren’t soulmates. We weren’t the pair he kept calling us.

“Nothing,” I state as I reach for a bag in the middle of the table that toppled over from its own weight.

Brock catches my wrist, causing me to look up at him. His tender squeeze demands I answer.

“I just thought you’d leave.”

His mouth quirks, the corner rising. “I’d think you’d be happy to see me go.”

“It isn’t awful spending time with you, I guess.”

His smile spreads wider, salacious, sensual. How had I not noticed his mouth before? Those lush lips. The white teeth sneaking out with his grin. And don’t forget that silvery scruff on his jaw growing thicker by the hour.

“Yeah. You aren’t awful either.” He winks, and I’m like a match lighting on the first strike. My insides blaze and my cheeks warm, but the molten desire between my legs hits the hardest. I want to swipe the groceries off this table and climb over it on my hands and knees, tug at the collar of his jacket and pull him to me, where I’d crush my mouth against his and—

“Pear?”

Oh my God . Did I say any of that fantasy aloud? I take a second to consciously review the last few minutes, worrying that my vivid imaginings came out in a verbal seduction. The quick check tells me I’ve kept my thoughts to myself, and I tug at my arm so Brock will release my wrist.

“I’m good.”

He hums as his eyes roam from my hair to my stomach and back to my eyes.

“So what did you buy?” I ask as a way of distraction.

“My woman wanted roast beast, so I bought us one.” He rustles through the plastic bags and removes a beef tenderloin that’s big enough to feed twelve, not two.

My breath catches from what he’d said. His woman . I could run a whole commentary on why calling me his woman is inappropriate and misogynist, but I’m stuck on another set of words. Roast beast. He caught the reference yesterday. And the little grinch before me shifts from a green heathen to a too-cute, fuzzy-soft creature.

“Aw, fireman, don’t make me like you.”

“I’m hard to resist.” His grin shifts to a knowing smirk.

Yeah, he knows he’s hot, but he isn’t looking at me cocky and confident. He’s staring at me like a hungry man, fighting off his desires while desperate to satisfy them .

“I also got you these.” From another bag, he removes a bouquet of hothouse-grown white tulips. The flower is so out of season and yet surprisingly refreshing.

“Are these apology flowers?” Is he sorry he kissed me earlier?

He shrugs. “Hadn’t really considered that.” He lifts his hand and scratches underneath his chin with his knuckles. The raspy sound does nothing to chill the gooey warmth in my lower belly.

“Just saw them and thought of you, snowflake.”

My face heats, suddenly realizing these aren’t simply last-second I’m sorry, flowers. That warmth down low becomes molten lava. Emotions that I should suppress can’t be wrangled. Brock wants to feed me. He bought me flowers because he thought of me. I almost don’t know what to do with this unexpected kindness.

“That was sweet.”

Reaching into his pants pocket, he pulls out something else. He holds out his cupped hand and inside is something made of wood.

“It’s a snowflake.” I lift my head, shock in my voice. “Did you make that? For me?”

He shrugs. “Just playing around.” His voice lowers, vulnerable and hesitant. I can almost hear his thoughts telling him it’s nothing. It’s stupid. But before he can retract his gift, an object I’ll treasure forever, I take it from him and press it to my chest.

His thoughtfulness will be my unraveling.

“That’s my apology.”

He has nothing to be sorry about. I’d take a thousand hot kisses from him, and every wooden snowflake he wants to make me.

+ + +

We don’t eat the beef. Instead, Brock bought a still-steaming, rotisserie chicken that comes with two sides and cornbread. We never had lunch and he admitted he was starving, so he wanted something hot and quick once he returned.

We ate in relative silence again. Brock rushing to eat. Me savoring the food.

After our lunch-slash-dinner, Brock showers and I return to the chair in the corner until he re-enters the living room and asks me if I want a glass of wine. I stand and meet him in the kitchen.

“Is this allowed on the job?” He holds up a brown bottle of beer for himself.

“I won’t tell, if you don’t.” I have no idea if Dad allows his restorative group to drink alcohol while on retreat. I’d guess yes, but if someone’s issue was with drugs or alcohol, I’d suspect no.

“Why did Dad want you on his retreat?”

Brock pops the cap on his beer and picks up the glass of wine he poured for me, nodding toward the couch for us to sit.

He follows me to the broken-in cushions and hands me the glass of red. We each take a corner of the couch. I lean my side into the back cushions and prop my arm on it, holding up my head as I face Brock. He slouches into the lumpy cushions and stares at the fire dancing in the hearth. He rests the open beer bottle at his waistline. He’s wearing black joggers and a long-sleeved waffle-weave shirt with three buttons open at the neck. Why is it loungewear can look so sexy on a man?

“I hit someone.”

My arm drops and I sit upright. Brock turns only his head to look at me. “We’d been drinking, shooting the shit, when Dane mentioned Melissa, my ex.” Brock looks away again, lifts his beer and takes a long drink. “He made some wisecrack about Melissa fucking Kenny. Some quip I can’t even recall now, but I snapped. Clocked him right in the nose.”

Brock makes a fist and imitates a rather weak punch. When his hand settles back around his beer bottle, he sighs. “I overreacted. Always do.” Sarcasm fills his voice.

“Why?”

“Why what?” He glances at me again.

“Why did you react with your fist? ”

“What are you? My shrink?” His voice is rough, like the gravel in the drive and reminiscent of the man who arrived two mornings ago.

“Do you need one?”

“No.” He scoffs.

“I did.”

Brock stares at me and if attending therapy just changed his mind about me, if he even had an opinion of me, we cannot be friends. He might be hot on the outside, but I can’t deal with shallow on the inside again.

His eyelids lower and he swallows hard. “Why did you need a shrink?”

“I didn’t need a shrink. I needed help growing taller.” I sit even straighter. “I’d been brought down but I wanted to stand up again.”

Brock’s gaze lifts to my face. “What happened?”

I shake my head. “Gotta earn my stories, fireman.” And his attitude about therapy has just knocked him over to the naughty list, and not the playfully naughty one.

A tiny smirk curls his mouth. “And how do I earn a snowflake story?”

“Tell me one of your own.”

He remains silent a moment. Maybe he needs a nudge, maybe a prompt, to get him talking.

“Are you still in love with Melissa? Is that why you reacted?”

“No.” The rejection is punctuated by a bitter laugh.

“But it still stings that she stepped out on you?”

“She didn’t step out. She fucked someone in our bed.”

“And not just someone, but your best friend.” I pause. “I can see how that would hurt. Blur those marriage vows a bit,” I tease. I’m not mocking his pain, but I want to lessen the tension. “And cross the bro-code line.”

“Yeah. Bro-code.” Again, his voice is full of bitter mockery.

“When did the divorce happen?”

“Nick was in high school. Ellie in eighth grade.” He pauses, thinking. “The most shocking part was who she was with. ”

After a moment, he sighs. “Kenny was my best friend. We started in the department together. And as my best friend, I went to Kenny with my worries and concerns. About how stressed I was over Melissa and her spending habits. Her attitude about money. And then she fucked her. And now they’re getting married.”

“Wait. What? She and her .”

“Kennedy is a woman.”

Oh my . “Love is love,” I whisper.

“Well, I didn’t want my best friend loving my wife. Or marrying her.”

Totally understandable. “So, when is the big day?”

Brock brings his beer to his mouth again, takes a long pull, and swallows hard. There’s a bop sound as his lips release the bottle. “This week.”

Double oh my .

“My kids are with them. They’re having a destination wedding. In Wisconsin.”

This makes me laugh. I like Wisconsin well enough but it’s not exactly the place I’d consider a destination for a wedding.

“Some fancy hotel in the northern part. A real winter wonderland for their wedding.”

“Is the expensive, exclusive wedding the issue or the marriage?”

“Does it matter?” He runs his thumb nail over the bottle’s label.

“You don’t want her marrying someone else?”

“I don’t want to be unmarried myself,” he finally states, loud and agitated.

My eyes widen at this response. “Are you saying you miss being married?”

Brock lifts his beer bottle again, and drinks heartily. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows gulp after gulp. When he finishes, he stares down at the empty container and shrugs.

“I liked being married. Liked knowing that at the end of the day, Melissa and I were coming home to each other. We were partners. We were together. Or at least, we had been at first.” He exhales. “I always wanted a family. A unit that was my own. I have a nice house and great kids. And at least, my kids were happy to see me.” He sighs. “Eventually, I’m not certain they were so thrilled.”

“What happened with your kids?”

Brock shakes his head, darkness suddenly marring his features. This is a subject he won’t touch. We’ve already crossed a line speaking about his ex-wife.

However, his admission about marriage is reassuring. I’d have never guessed Brock might have a little romantic nature buried deep inside him.

That path is dangerous. I don’t need to get ahead of myself. That’s how I ended up with Reggie.

“What about you? You were married. Don’t you miss it?”

“I don’t miss him, that’s for sure.” I chuckle, more good-natured than Brock about my ex. Our marriage didn’t fall apart with a human third party involved. Gambling was Reggie’s mistress, and while no less deceitful, at least it wasn’t a physical person, or my best friend, that made him unfaithful.

Unfortunately, I can’t tell Brock what I really miss, whether in marriage or otherwise. Sex . Rather than a true love bringing me a bird in a fruit tree, he should bring on the orgasms.

Brock snorts, drawing my attention back to him. “Guess we aren’t meant for true love.”

My brows pinch. “Oh, I still believe in true love.”

Brock leans forward, bracing his elbows on his legs while turning his head to look at me again. “Even after your marriage failed?”

“I didn’t fail at loving. Had I once thought I loved Reggie? I did. Evidently not true love, but love in all its mysterious, foggy ways. And I still believe true love is out there.” I dramatically wave through the air. “Somewhere.”

Silence falls between us a second before I add, “My parents had a true-love match.”

With a pensive hum, Brock lowers his head to peer at the fire. The blaze is dying back and his gaze lifts higher to the decorative panels above the mantel. He tips his beer bottle toward the bird images painted on the doors.

“Doves. Mates for life.”

“My mother loved the birds,” I state, my voice low at the sudden reminder of my mom. A misty haze of memory where she is laughing and my dad cups her face, bringing her close for a kiss. He was so sweet on her.

Clearing my throat, I nod toward the panels. “But those birds don’t mean romantic love. They represent . . .” My throat grows thicker. “They represent my sister and me. Pear.” I point at the left panel. “And Peach. My twin sister.”

“Ah, the ninja turtles in the photo on Cap’s bedside table.”

Dad still has that picture? I hadn’t noticed. It’s been years since I’ve been here, seeing Dad more often in Chicago. Yesterday, I only changed the sheets on the bed and did a quick scan of the room for dirty laundry. I didn’t give the framed images on his bedside table a second glance.

Softly, I smile. “My sister loved turtles and begged me to dress up as one for Halloween to match her. Our mom was still alive then and our parents joined in. The four of us represented The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles .” Melancholy hits like a blunt sword.

Brock lightly chuckles, as if he can picture the four of us. Then again, he saw how Peach and I looked in our costumes.

“Pear and Peach, cute.”

“Paradise and Precious. Our mother wanted to be original. Wanted us to stand out.”

My gaze is focused on the panels. I can’t remember exactly when we painted them. Dad cut the squared doors. Peach and I fought over which color should represent us. She wanted green. I wanted hot pink. Dad settled the argument by having her use muted blue and me a dusty rose.

“Mom always said we were two halves of one soul. Her little birds.” Giving us such different names and then slicing those names even further into fruit endearments made no sense. But Dad called Mom a mother hen and we were her chicks. The loves of her life.

Marriage. Motherhood. Sisters. So many ways to love. So many versions of soulmates.

“Cap doesn’t really talk about you or your sister.” Brock speaks softly, quietly sharing the information I’m well aware of. When Peach and I were younger, he’d tell us he wanted to protect us. Fireman and cop kids could be targets. When we grew older, Peach thought the distance he put between his teenage daughters and the firehouse was to keep probies away from us. Or us away from the new recruits. Fiery hot fireman and hormonal girls can be a flammable combination.

“It’s hard for him. My mom. And my sister.”

Brock’s eyes remain on me, but I lower my gaze from the painted panels to stare at my lap.

“Christmas can be the loneliest time of the year.” I swallow, willing away the prickle in my nose and burn in my dry eyes. A sharp crack goes off in the fireplace, and I close my eyes willing away the constant ache. This isn’t where I wanted our conversation to veer.

“Peach was only twenty-eight. I should have felt her sadness. If we shared a soul like we shared the womb, I should have known something was wrong. But I didn’t.”

I look back at the painted panels, blinking harder to clear the mist in my eyes. Every day I ache for her as my other half. I tried to fit Reggie into the void, but he’d only taken advantage of my vulnerability. Plus, sisterly love was different than marriage. No one can ever patch the gap her senseless, unexpected death left in my heart.

“Snowflake,” Brock mumbles, setting his empty beer bottle at his feet and sliding closer to me on the couch.

Precious’s death happened thirteen years ago. His sympathy isn’t necessary, but when his strong arms wrap around me and his lips linger on my hair after he tucks my head against his chest, I don’t push him away.

I melt into the comfort he offers. The beat of his heart. The heat of his embrace .

And inside me, something ruffles.

Like the wings of a long-injured bird, desperate to take flight again.