Page 13 of Grouch-ish

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.”