Chapter 9

[Pear]

Our mouths press together with the softest of touch. Caught up in the moonlight and the moment, I worried I’d gone too far.

I’m staking my claim .

Did he mean me? With only four days of knowing him, he couldn’t possibly.

Still, when I lower to my heels and pull back from his mouth, he catches me by the back of my head, and our eyes lock a second before he leans forward to kiss me this round.

And Brock Scroggs knows how to kiss a woman.

After the open-mouth kisses and tongue licking on my neck two days ago, I already had a sense of how he’d kiss but this was different. Soft while insistent. Eager but patient. Tender while teasing. His lips caress mine, guiding them to follow his lead. His tongue doesn’t press forward. His teeth don’t nip. Only his mouth controls this moment and from the top of my head to the tips of my toes I feel him everywhere. I’ve never been kissed like this.

With purpose. With restraint. With care.

Brock is on a mission to melt my insides, or rather, heat them up. However, he takes things no further than this simplistic kiss before he pulls back and rests his forehead against mine.

“Thank you,” he whispers in the silent night.

“For what?” I smile, wanting to thank him for such a kiss, for igniting a flame within me. For waking me up inside.

“For giving me a chance.” His honesty hints that Brock hasn’t been given many opportunities to prove his worth. Or maybe he’s been trying to prove himself worthy too often.

“I’d give you a dozen,” I admit.

“Twelve days, right?”

That actually wasn’t what I meant, but I smile all the same .

His comment is a reminder that we only have twelve days together. Soon, he’ll go back to Chicago, and I’ll . . . still be here wondering what I’m going to do next with my life.

+ + +

On the fifth day of Brock’s stay, I have a difficult task for him.

“Five rusty runners,” I announce, after pulling back the giant tarp on one of two items in the old barn.

“Is that a—” He states the make and model number of the snowmobile so fast I don’t have any idea what he’s said.

I’m also not certain if it’s rust or just wear and tear on the sliders that propel the snowmobile like wheels on a vehicle, but they need to be cleaned or replaced.

“Can we take it out for a spin?” Like an eager child wanting to ride a new bike, Brock’s face is lit with excitement.

“Why don’t you inspect it first. I’m not certain it even has the proper gas.” I pause a second realizing I might have made an assumption that Brock would understand the mechanics of a snowmobile. Plus, if parts need to be replaced, I have no idea where to find them locally.

“I also have this project for you.”

Pulling back the tarp on a second item, which catches at first because of its height compared to mine, Brock gasps once more.

“Is that an actual sleigh? Like a horse drawn one?”

“Yep.” Glee fills my voice. “The sleigh came with the house, and for years I’ve been begging my dad to polish the runners and the box and take this beautiful old thing out for a run.”

I wanted to take an honest to goodness sleigh ride in the snow.

“You don’t have horses,” Brock states the obvious. We don’t, and Dad wasn’t confident he could steer them even if he could rent some from a local farm.

“Neither here nor there.” I dismiss his observation. We’re putting the sleigh before the horses, so to speak, but I wanted this carriage spiffed up and shining for Dad. And me. Mostly me .

“Do you know anything about sleighs? Or snowmobiles?”

Brock pulls up his phone. “I’ll learn because I want to drive that thing.” He nods at the modern machinery while I sigh over the antique vehicle.

Brock and I couldn’t be more opposite, but then I recall our kiss last night and realize we fit.

Like peppermint and chocolate. One sweet and sugary, the other smooth and creamy; both delicious on their own, but decadent when mixed together.

+ + +

While Brock works diligently during the day, I tackle removing my dad’s Christmas tree.

The holiday season was my mother’s delight and my sister’s demise, so Dad and I struggled for a long time on how to navigate this time of year. Eventually, I’d thrown myself into Reggie’s orbit and allowed myself to be swallowed into his family’s traditions when I secretly missed my own. Once I divorced Reggie, I returned home two years in a row to find this old farmhouse dripping in holiday cheer.

Dad had come to terms with the season and the reason for it. He believed light came out of the dark moments, and we needed to honor both. The bright memories of my mother and sister, and their quiet, lingering absence.

This year, I didn’t think I would make it home. Work was a bitch. There was no other term for Eat ’em Industries. The final straw had been the lack of bonuses for the second year in a row after months of working overtime. As a salaried executive, I wasn’t eligible for the benefit of additional pay for the extra hours I put in, so I looked forward to the bonus as compensation. I had plans for the money; a cushion of security I hadn’t had in years. However, Eat ’em failed me, and I was simply tired of their changing company policies and lacking moral code.

Coming home to surprise my dad hadn’t been on my agenda, but once I’d given notice at Eat ’em and set things in motion to make another major change in my life, I couldn’t wait to get here. I couldn’t wait to talk to him. Tell him the truth about Reggie and my struggles over the past few years. Tell him my plan to live closer to him. The hardest part would be confessing that I didn’t have a clue what I’ll do next.

Finding the house dripping in holiday ornamentation was a warm welcome, almost like a sign that the decisions I’d made were the right ones. I was where I needed to be, and I’d been absent for too long.

With silent nostalgia and a tug in my heart, I remove each ornament from the tree, wrapping them in tissue and restoring them to the proper storage bin for next year. Dad doesn’t mind leaving his tree up for the full twelve days of Christmas. Tradition demands it. Some religions do, too. But I like a clean house to start the new year, and with tomorrow being New Year’s Eve, I want the tree removed. However, I’m not ready to remove the festive garland or fairy lights along the mantel that light up the room, giving off a soft glow and cozy ambiance.

When Brock finally enters the house, looking agitated, it’s dark outside. Sometimes I think that irritated scowl and hard jawline is simply his look. He’s handsome despite it, but devastatingly good-looking when he smiles. I like his mouth. The smirky curl when he fights a smile. The widening of his lips when he grins. The flash of white teeth, suggesting he’s up to something mischievous. The way those lips taste against mine.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, watching as he brushes snow off his coat and tugs off his knit hat. Not going to lie, I’ve had fantasies of him wearing only that gray cap and his jeans minus anything else.

“Why does something need to be wrong?”

“It doesn’t need to be. You just look grouchy.”

His bushy brows lift at my assessment. “I think it’s just my natural disposition.”

“But it’s not,” I laugh. “You have a nice smile.”

The compliment pulls his lips upward, hitching one side higher than the other. I hold my breath, anticipating what will appear next. The hint of white teeth flash at me. Along with the flare of his teeth, his cheeks pinken deeper than the dash of cold on them .

Is he blushing? Brock Scroggs is actually flushed by a compliment, and I suddenly want to give him a dozen of them.

“I, uh, I found an extra set of slides for the snowmobile in the barn, but I had trouble with them, and the job took me longer than I anticipated. I won’t know for certain if I have them properly installed until I can take the snowmobile for a run. As for the sleigh . . .” Brock drops his gaze. “It’s more than I can tackle. The runners look like they need a lot of sanding, possibly sandblasting, and then a coat of rust protection to seal them. I didn’t find a sandblaster among Cap’s tools, and the barn is too cold for coating even if I found the bonder I’d need.”

He hasn’t removed his coat yet and with his knit cap in his hand, nervously being twirled around and around, his head hangs lower as if he’s nervous because he hasn’t completed today’s task. Or maybe he feels incompetent by not being able to do the job. Something he would have called stupid days ago. Maybe he even did, cursing the project several times while out in the barn.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, softening my voice and slowly approaching him. “What matters is you tried. We can’t always complete every task in a day. And sometimes projects are bigger than we can tackle. Mentally or physically.”

Brock nods, still not lifting his head. “I just don’t want to disappoint Cap.” I see his Adam’s apple bob when he adds, “Or you.”

“You haven’t disappointed me, fireman.” Sure, I’d love to see that old sleigh in working order, but the antique runners need a lot more work than I anticipated.

Brock nods once more, finally lifting his head higher but avoiding my eyes as he slips off his coat and hangs it on a hook like he’s part of our very small family. The camel-colored jacket looks right at home among the other jackets and scarves hanging off the hooks, and when Brock kicks off his boots, but places them in a cubby hole beneath the bench, I marvel at their rightness there as well.

He might need this farmhouse as much as me to know he’s welcome and worthy .

“I’ll Be Home For Christmas” plays on the small sound system Dad has installed in the kitchen area. I’d been listening to a holiday playlist as my final farewell to the Christmas season, and suddenly my eyes well with tears.

Instantly, Brock is before me. His brows pinch in question but he doesn’t ask. Instead, he takes my hand and gently pulls me closer to him. To the sound of Bing Crosby crooning, we sway in the space between the dining table and the living room.

For too long, being home has been a dream. Living closer to my dad. Returning to myself.

But now I’m here. Where I’m meant to be.

Maybe Brock is meant to be here, too.